The Haunting of Sherlock Holmes
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Forced by his interfering git of a brother to the countryside to recuperate, Sherlock stumbles upon a 60 year old mystery. Captain John Watson, returning after WWII mysteriously disappeared on night. Bored Sherlock investigates, but what if Watson didn't disappear? What if he's still there? Sort of a ghost story. Eventual Johnlock Reviews may contain spoilers CI art by deebzy
1. Correspondence from an Invalid

The Haunting of Sherlock Holmes

**A/N: Oh I am a terrible person! I have two other stories on the go, and here I am starting a third:P I will be writing the next chapter of Malediction – I will – I had to work out some issues in my head – no comment - &amp; Once Upon a Lily Pad will be along soon, but I couldn't get rid of this imagine of Sherlock sitting at a desk in an old country house. I needed to quiet the story in my head:P**

**Anyway here it is – sort of kind of a ghost story but not really – not sure what it is;) but we shall see**

**Thanks again to the lovey and talented johnsarmylady and mattsloved1, (who won't speak to me again if I don't get Chapter 9 of Mal up soon:P) for reading this over.**

**As usual I do not own, but I wish I did:(**

1\. Correspondence from an Invalid in the Country

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_I am writing to you as promised. I cannot believe that I have allowed myself to pick up a pen and compose a letter. Tedious. I am sure you are equally surprised. I had no intention of holding myself to the sentimentality of keeping you 'up to speed' as you so ineloquently put it, of my health, physical and mental. As well, I will not impart to you the prices at the shops nor inform you the flowers look lovely for the season. I am not, as you are well aware, the sort to chat about the weather and the local gossip. I would not listen to it nor would I convey it unless of course it leads to an interesting murder or even perhaps a jewel theft. No such luck. I would text you and say I am fine, and I have arrived in this hellhole and I am safe, safe but utterly, utterly bored, but the house has not yet been connected to any sort of Internet, and the mobile signal is dreadful. Therefore, I am reduced to an old fashioned and outdated mode of communication._

_I can tell you that I will definitely be thinking of new and inventive ways to kill Mycroft. Don't be alarmed. I probably won't. Mother would not be impressed. I still blame him for kidnapping me and sending me here to recuperate. I was shot for God's sake not invalided. And it is not my fault that I picked up a hospital-induced illness as a result. But kidnap me he did, as you are aware, claiming the air would be good for my lungs. He has also forbidden me to smoke, not that I can between his bribing all of the local shops into refusing to sell cigarettes to me and that I double over in agony as soon as I inhale. Scratch that. I do not. You are not to imagine me gasping on the floor nor are you to inform my brother._

_I am reluctant to admit I have been sleeping better since I arrived. I had wondered if I would miss the noise and the traffic and the excitement of London. I do, but there is something rather tranquil about this place. Do not speak of this to Mycroft. He would be unbearably smug._

_You would be interested in the house itself. It's quite old, typical English garden, pokey rooms, and creaky staircase. The view from the room I am presently in looks out onto the back garden. There are bees, far more than I have ever seen and the caretaker, who thankfully minds the garden, so I don't have to, informs me the neighbour to the West keeps hives. I am thinking of wandering over and poking around. Yes, I know you are worried I will get into trouble, but I promise I will ask permission. Maybe._

_The house itself belongs to a Miss Harriet Watson, an elderly, but sharp woman who lives in the small town with her Lesbian life partner. Dreadful term. As you have both reached a similar age, you would enjoy listening to her ramble on about the goings on in the local area. I, however, do not. She did have some mildly interesting stories to tell about the house. It belonged to her great uncle, a Captain John Watson. Here is the one mystery that may be worth my time. The one little bit of unsolved drama in the whole county. Captain Watson returned to his home after serving during WWII to establish a medical practice. One night, under supposedly suspicious circumstances, he mysteriously disappeared. No one saw anything, and no one heard anything. Just gone. If I find I am bored beyond redemption, I may peruse it and unearth all the sordid details. See what I am reduced? Should be easy. Come to think of it may not be worth my attention whatsoever._

_I have surprised myself by the length of this letter. I must be bored. I believe I will write to Lestrade next. I am sure London is falling apart, and the crime rate has blossomed since I departed. He will require my assistance. I will mention that I am available to consult once I get a landline installed. I was told it would be at least three weeks._

_Such a dull place. Nothing happens here._

_S. Holmes _

Sherlock stretched and shook his cramped hand. It had been a long time since he had sat to write a letter by hand. He wasn't sure why he had felt the need. Deep inside the recesses of his mind he knew on some level he did indeed miss Mrs. Hudson, something he wouldn't have thought possible.

Carefully folding the letter, he stuck it into an envelope he found in the old writing desk, and addressed it in his spidery handwriting. He would take a walk into town later and mail it. It wasn't far, and he needed to stretch his legs. Being confined in the hospital for weeks and then coming down with pneumonia afterward had drained him of his former vitality. His transport had failed him, and he was no longer able to run and jump and climb throughout the streets of London.

He tapped the pen against the desk and stared out into the back garden, which blended into the roll and swell of the hills. Grass and wildflowers dotted the distance. Supposedly there was a herd of wild horses that roamed the area. It was all beautiful and peaceful and calm.

He might just go mad and start shooting the wall if nothing new happened soon.


	2. Tales Told by the Fire

2\. Tales Told by the Fire

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_It has only been a few days since my last letter, but I am again endeavouring to keep myself from going mad by writing to you. I am assuming the Royal Mail delivered my last letter, although that is perhaps presumptuous. _

_As I have no one of consequence to discuss this with, and as you have little to do in your day-to-day life, I thought you might be interested in the information I have discovered regarding the disappearance of Captain Watson. I am also trying to include news of the sort that would amuse you such as the weather and local gossip. I stated in my last letter I would do neither but as it is exceedingly dull here and little happens to amuse you on Baker Street without me to provide the thrill of my investigations, I have decided to do so, as a favour to you. _

_I have visited Miss Harriet Watson and had what some would say was a lovely chat, and I would say an incoherent rambling of a woman nearing infirmity. Did I tell you she is close your age? Yes, I am positive I did so in my last letter._

_We were in her sitting room in front of a rather large fire. It was a warm day for October, the weather having been clear the better part of the week, but I suppose being near to ninety makes it hard to retain one's body heat. I wouldn't know, but I imagine you would have some insight into this. As I was saying, the lady in question had lit a rather large fire, and the room was stifling. As Miss Watson droned on and on, I found myself contemplating other more important ideas and I must admit I was rather close to considering creating a diversion in order to leave the premises. Fortunately, she began to speak rather in earnest about her great uncle and consequently got to the point._

_She spoke of the night he disappeared. She said he was coming home from the local pub, having stopped a fight amongst the patrons, the nature of which has been lost to time. That is disappointing as the fight may be the very reason Watson disappeared. Harriet Watson stated that Watson was a proud man with a quick temper and a mean right hook. He may have originally tried to stop the fight, but the story continues that he gave as good as he got and the pub was a bit of a wreck afterwards. He is said to have left the pub shortly before midnight and was not seen again._

_Miss Watson said that after a few days, having not shown up at his office, some went looking for him at the house, but there was nothing. No signs of a struggle, no signs of Watson. I need to look at the police records of the time, see if they were smart enough to take photos of the house. As I have little faith in the indigenous police force, I have faint hope. Some believe he was perhaps concussed during the fight, lost his way in the dark and drowned in a nearby pond. Before you can ask, it was apparently dredged but a body didn't turn up and never has. _

_Simple-minded people being what they are, outlandish stories have come forth ever since. The nearest neighbours reported a strange glow emanating from the region of the house the night of the disappearance. They were apparently near enough to just make out the lights from the house at night. Back then there had been a copse of trees between the house and the neighbours, but a high wind moved the branches around and the lights would appear. On that night, high wind was reported in the general area of the house but not in town, which has lead to all sorts of overactive imaginative speculation. Shame that the former neighbours are all deceased, as are nearly all who lived at this time, I might have gained further insight. Again I shall have to rely on shoddy record keeping._

_Many of the townsfolk believe fairies or the Sidhe carried him off. That is the problem with legend, myth and dealing with the uneducated and simple-minded; they come up with stories they want to believe in rather than simple facts – rather like you telling your friend's grandson about Father Christmas. If only people would stick to the truth and not all this fairy nonsense and stories. _

_Since then the house has been looked upon with the usual outlandish rumour as being haunted. Miss Watson stated that those who stay here are often subjected to noises in the night, furniture displacement, the usual. Occasionally some have seen a sad and lonely figure standing on the landing or glimpses of the man looking over their shoulder in the mirror of the bathroom. One said he could smell toast in the mornings. I suggested that individual might wish to check for signs of stroke. Miss Watson asked if I had noticed anything. I, of course, stated I notice everything and nothing unusual had occurred, but she gave me a certain look, which I found to be rather insulting._

Sherlock put down his pen and shifted his head, ears perked, as a small noise from beyond the door, registered. A creak, a tread of footsteps. Someone was climbing the stairs. He turned to see who had the audacity to enter the house without knocking. Of course, as engrossed as he was with letter writing he may not have noticed someone knocking upon the door and being out in the country and near a small village, sociable people apparently felt the need to let themselves in. He would have to disabuse them of such a notion.

The sound of footsteps stopped outside the door, which hadn't been completely shut when he came in to sit at the desk. The door began to swing open, as if a hand were pushing it from the other side. It vibrated slightly, a swaying motion and creaked a little. Sherlock stood and stepped toward the door to greet whoever was there, a sharp reprimand ready on his lips. The door ceased its forward motion. Sherlock took another step forward.

No one was there.

He placed a hand on the frame and peered out, thinking the intruder had simply stepped out of view. The landing and the hallway were empty. The top of the stairwell was visible from where he stood, and a person heading down the stairs would still be in view. He shrugged. An old house creaks and moans as it settles in its agedness. A draft could send a pulse of air up a stairwell and cause a door to move. Any number of things could have caused the motion of the door and the sound of footsteps. He chalked it up to being tired, recuperating and stuffing his head full of sentimental twaddle.

Turning, his hand on the knob, he began to close the door, firmly. As he did so, there was a faint cobweb brush, a feather light trace of fingertips, pressure, cool and soft, floating, molecule thin, on the back of his hand. Sherlock jerked his hand away; the door bobbed open further, and the force was enough to send it bumping against the wall. He glanced at his hand, the hairs on his arm rising in primitive reaction to something. A shiver coursed down his back. The temperature in the room dropped slightly.

After a moment he narrowed his eyes, grasped the door firmly and shut it with a bang. He stood there, hands in his pockets, not quite scrubbing the back of the one against the lining of his trousers. After a further glare at the offending door, he turned and sat back at the desk, but interest in the letter, which lay unfinished upon the desk, left his mind. He sat, elbows on the desk, palms together, steepled hands.

It was nothing, he knew it was nothing; there was always a logical explanation.

But somehow that didn't explain the soft sigh of sound he had heard at the same time he had felt the pressure of a hand on the back of his.

Try as he might, he couldn't reason away the soft breath on his ear, the caress of a sigh as if someone familiar and intimate whispered his name.


	3. Sympathetic Hands

**A/N: It seems I am in a catching up mood. Again I am sorry for those who having been waiting for an update – RL sometimes plays havoc:)**

**This chapter is dedicated to mrspencil, awesome author and poetess, for reasons.**

**Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this over.**

3\. Sympathetic Hands

Sherlock sat down to finish the letter, a slight itch of unease between his shoulder blades, as he tried not to think about the closed door. The pen he had placed on the desk when he had investigated the odd creaking was held once more between his fingers. He rolled it back and forth, thinking, the smooth surface moving over the callus on the inside of his middle finger. He would think about what might be beyond the closed door. He would not turn his head to check. He would not think about the idea of someone, something, invisible and unseen whispering his name. He would look up the side effects of the medications he was on to see if hallucinations were included.

With a frustrated growl, he once more bemoaned the lack of access to the Internet. Mycroft had sent him here deliberately to keep him tamed and quiet. He should have known better. He scrubbed ineffectually at his hair. It was his fault he was seeing and hearing things. Not to mention having things touch him. Not good, that.

Angry, he threw the pen back down and thrust his chair away to stand once more. He left the room and clattered down the stairs. A coughing fit stopped him at the bottom and he doubled over, winded. His traitorous body was still not up to much activity. Apparently running down the stairs was dangerous to his health. Catching his breath, he straightened and made his way to the kitchen at the back of the house. He opened a cupboard and pulled down a glass. Water poured from the tap as he waited for it to cool. He drank slowly and then set the glass down, carefully taking a deep breath. His lungs filled slowly and with only a slight tugging sensation, an easily ignored pain. It was so annoying to be betrayed by simple transport.

A deep feeling of needing to get out of the house crowded him and he walked to the front door. Taking his coat off of the hook, he put it on and buttoned it up. He took down his blue scarf, wrapped it around his neck and tucked in the ends. A slight pause and an urge that was hard to ignore, he consciously willed himself not to glance back up the staircase. The door was thrown open in a slight huff and he left.

It was crisp, bright outside and a mischievous wind played with the curls through his hair. He walked as swiftly as he dared toward the town. There was no set idea of what he would do when he arrived; he just felt the need to leave. On a whim, he stopped part way and changed direction, deciding a visit to the neighbour who kept bees might be in order. Bees were logical, practical and fascinating. They were not something fanciful and they certainly didn't believe in ghosts.

He climbed the slight hill back toward the house but turned before getting there and walked up the winding laneway toward his neighbour's house.

A similar but slightly newer cottage sat at the end of the lane. A riot of autumn flowers filled every square inch of the front yard and a low stonewall milled about the property. A nicely shaded front surrounded by old trees, and he could see open meadow just behind the cottage.

Sherlock walked to the front door, raised the brass knocker and rapped it sharply three times. After what felt to be an interminable wait his neighbour opened the door.

"Ah, Mr Holmes. You took me on my word. Come to see my bees? 'Tis a good day for it and probably one of the last before they bed down for the winter. Weather is supposed to turn next week. They are out and about, busy getting last minute collections. I was checking yesterday to make sure all the hives had enough stored away. Sometimes I have to help them, but this year seems to be a good year. Come, come with me."

"Thank you, Mr Easton." Sherlock listened intently as his neighbour continued to expound upon the delights of beekeeping. It was odd, he thought, that he couldn't listen to most people's ramblings but he could attend to Mr Easton.

In the large acreage at the back were several hives. Even from here, Sherlock could see the bees' activity. They stopped a distance away and watched. A calm descended and all the worries about his mental health and imaginings flowed away.

He spent the day observing the bees, not pausing to come to the house for a quick bite. Mrs Easton good-naturedly brought tea and toast with the Easton's honey down to the two men, she laughed and pecked her husband on the cheek fondly. Mr Easton got out his beekeeper's gear and he showed Sherlock the inner workings of one of the hives. They didn't disturb the bees for long, as there was an obvious urgency to the small insects toil.

Late in the day, Sherlock decided to head back to his cottage. After turning down an offer of supper, he said goodbye to the Eastons, thanked them more graciously than Mycroft would have believed possible and promised to help Mr Easton with any last minute winter preparations that might be needed. It would have been difficult to turn him away even if he hadn't been wanted.

It was a perfect ending to a rather extraordinary day and the strange events of the morning fled his mind. He hummed a piece he was composing on the industry of bees, which he intended to write down as soon as he returned to the cottage. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he was not watching where he was going and tripped over a loose stone on the road. He went down hard, his ankle twisted and he banged his knees upon the loose scree of the laneway. The hand he held out to stop from hitting his head against the stonewall was insufficient in its ability and he struck a glancing blow to the temple. He blacked out momentarily from the combination of pain that assaulted his body.

He didn't think he'd been out long, but it was long enough for the blood to crawl from his head, trickle down and along the side of his face. The annoyance of the feeling of the blood was enough to help focus the pain and he wiped at it, smearing the blood. It covered the back of his leather glove. He felt sick and dizzy, but mostly he was beginning to feel cold.

He sat for a minute fiercely concentrating on not throwing up the tea and toast he had consumed. Pushing his hands to the ground, he stood shakily and began to continue his walk back to his residence, one hand touching the wall every few feet to steady himself. There didn't seem to be a desire to consult with his neighbours regarding his injuries, rather the pull of home was telling him to return to the cottage. He didn't give the Eastons a second thought, though it would have been wiser for him to do so, made his way back home, slowly. So slowly that it had become dark by the time he arrived there. The playful wind from the morning had turned frigid and he was shivering uncontrollably by the time he arrived.

Once inside, he hung his coat on the hook by the door. He did not remove his scarf but he did strip his gloves off, ruined as they were, leaving them to fall on the mat. The door remained open behind him.

He entered the sitting room and collapsed into the wing-backed chair nearest the fireplace. He would just close his eyes momentarily, rest and then see about cleaning himself up. He fell asleep almost immediately. The house had been cold from the wind and the time of the year. It became colder still with the door open, allowing the night air to enter.

Under normal circumstances, it may have been doubtful that he would have ever awoken again. Under normal circumstances, he may have just drifted into a deeper state of unconsciousness and died. Fortunately for Sherlock these were far from normal circumstances. This was a house held in the grasp of something eerie and secretive, outside the realm of normal.

Sherlock did awake, warm and comfortable, several hours later. A tentative touch to his head, as careful, steady hands ran themselves lightly through his hair, roused him from his dreams. He was groggy and his head hurt

Looking around blearily, he thought he saw someone standing near the fireplace, someone insubstantial, a wraithlike being that, through squinted eyes, looked more solid than he should. He was short, but held himself as if he were tall and stately, his body muscular, in spite of the starlight gleaming through him from the windows. He wore most of the uniform of a soldier but without the jacket. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past the elbows and one hand was leaning on the mantel, the other was in his pocket. He turned when Sherlock groaned softly and walked over.

The same hands he had felt through his hair now touched him, lifting his head a fraction to look into his eyes. Gentle fingers checked his temple and the plaster over the cut. There seemed to be more solidness to the touch than there had been this morning. That had been molecule thin; this had more weight to it, more reality. He became slightly more aware of his surroundings, enough to notice that a blanket had been thrown over him, drawn up to his chest. One of his legs had been lifted onto a footstool, his shoes removed and a cool flannel placed upon the sprained ankle. The fireplace held the remains of a proper fire, the embers giving off a steady warmth. There was a glass of water on the small table beside the chair. He wondered confusedly how a ghost could do all of these things especially one who seemed as insubstantial as this one.

He looked at the man standing before him and tried to speak. The ghost, or whatever he was, laid a finger across his lips and despite the considerable pain he was in, a thrill ran through him with that simple touch. An eerie almost silent 'hush' came from the ghost's lips and he was sure he heard someone say, 'You are an idiot', to which he grimaced in agreement. He muttered back to the ghost, "Captain Watson I presume" before he succumbed once more.

He was awakened several more time throughout the night. The same confident touch of a hand on his pulse, checking his plaster, forcing a glass to his lips or running fingers through his hair. Normally such intimacy would have been shrugged off or the perpetrator given a cold glance and harsh words, but this felt different. It felt familiar and relaxing.

Dawn broke and with it Sherlock sunk into a more natural and healing sleep. It was some time later, afternoon sunlight stealing in through the windows when he awoke to his stomach rumbling. It seemed, despite his adventure from the day before, his stomach was demanding sustenance. He had become more used to eating on a regular basis since arriving at the cottage. He looked at his foot and saw that his ankle was a bit swollen but not as badly as he had feared. The wet flannel had dried and lay on top of it. He stood gingerly, testing his weight. If he were careful, he should be able to make his way to the kitchen. He wondered at the strangeness of the dream he had had the night before. Obviously he had managed to take care of himself before falling asleep in the chair. It would have been hazardous to climb the old staircase in the dark and he must have known there were first aid items in the downstairs bathroom. It bothered him not at all that his memory of what had happened was superimposed with idle fantasy. He figured it was his way of dealing with the trauma of the accident. All the stories he had heard recently regarding Captain Watson had overlaid his ministrations with a convenient and capable ghost doctor. He chuckled wryly to himself, trying very hard to clamp down on the odd sensation of panic at the back of his mind.

A short time later, supplied with tea and toast carted in one hand, he made a cautious way back to the living room, his fingers brushing the hallway walls to help steady his aching body. He entered the room and glanced up, something over the fireplace catching his eye. What was there caused him to jerk back in shock and he narrowly prevented the items in his hands from falling and crashing to the floor. He placed them on the small table by the chair and made his way to the fireplace, his hunger momentarily forgotten.

An antique mirror graced the wall above the mantle. Somehow, something, someone had written on the glass, scratched words that could only just be seen. The light from the afternoon sun helped the markings to be more clearly revealed. He lifted a trembling hand to trace the letters. Standing and staring in wonder, his idea of reality turned around and his whole belief system ground to a halt with the events of the last day. What he had assumed was a dream was obviously not, reinforced by the writing on the mirror, a simple plea that tore at something inside him. Words that quietly said '_Help me_'.


	4. Ghostly Company

**A/N: Thank you for all the likes, kudos and comments:)**

**Thanks to johnsarmylady and mattsloved1 for checking out this chapter for me.**

4\. Ghostly Company

It was definitely there, the silent plea scratched on the glass. Trembling fingers continued to trace the letters. The rough edges caught his fingertips, a stutter of feeling not unlike the falter of his heartbeat. A part of his brain was calculating the pressure required, materials at hand whilst another was looking at the slight tremor as it skimmed over the marks and noted other signs of possible shock. He backed up and sat heavily in the chair.

The same shaky hand ran through his hair and scrubbed his face. If this were a result of the concussion, creating a hallucination, then he could face this more easily. Perhaps some part of his mind had wandered offline and in his delirium he had etched the words himself. Ridiculous. Obviously he hadn't noticed someone entering the house last night, someone who had taken care of him and scratched the words on the mirror, most likely female, with a diamond ring, but why? What would they gain? What was the motive? He leaned forward and clutched his hair again. Would the elderly Miss Watson do this to make the house more exciting, trying to make people interested in renting? Surely there wasn't that lucrative a market in the supernatural. In fact, some would avoid it.

This was not happening.

He jerked back. It was there again. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck reacted, and he unsuccessfully suppressed a shudder. A touch hovered over his head, that same not quite a feeling of being there, a hand nearby. His eyes widened, and he glanced around. There was nothing and no one. Shaking his head in denial, he discovered his concussion was more severe than he had first thought. The shaking had created more pain.

And then came the voice from last night and yesterday morning, very soft, very faint. "Hush. You are not imaging this."

"Who are you? Where are you?"

The sigh came, like dust landing, just on the edge of hearing, tickling his senses but not substantial, brushed away easily.

"It's hard. Wait for me."

A subtle change in the air, the light, something and Sherlock knew he was alone. Eyes narrowed, he looked carefully, but whatever it was, was gone.

Cursing once more the lack of a landline, he checked his mobile reception. Surprisingly it wasn't dodgy at the moment, and he quickly placed a call. "Ah yes, Miss Watson. I was wondering if you would be available for a chat about the house. Yes, right now. Would you be amicable to coming here? I injured myself last night. Yes, that would be acceptable. "

He hung up without saying goodbye, his thoughts racing.

In what seemed like a lengthy wait, there was a knock on the door.

"It's open," he yelled, followed by, "I am in the sitting room."

A straightening of shoulders, his body held poised. Inside he was a wreck, but no one would guess how he felt. He would never admit, through word or gesture, how unnerved he had been made by whatever nonsense the old woman had created.

Around the corner of the doorframe, the woman in question entered. She was spritely for someone in her late eighties, smartly dressed, apple-cheeked and with a gleam in her eye and the faint whiff of something herbal like she had been cooking stuffing.

"Well now Mr. Holmes, what seems to be the problem? Is there something wrong with the house? I rather wish you'd told me on the phone. My favourite show is on, and I don't like missing it." She marched in as if she owned the place, which of course she did and sat down across from Sherlock.

"Oh dear, what have you done to yourself? That's a nasty bruise on your head. And you, still recovering from the hospital. Why, I was saying to Clara, just the other day…"

"I fell walking yesterday, as you should know."

"How on earth would I know? I haven't been out of the house most of the week."

"You came over last night to look after me whilst I slept."

"What? Goodness no. You can ask Clara. We stayed in last night. Much too cold and windy for a body to be out. We stayed home to watch Strictly Come Dancing. I love the posh clothing. Clara's more fond of…"

"Miss Watson, did you or did you not arrange for a so-called ghost to haunt this house?"

"Now Mr. Holmes, I told you when you came here that there were rumours of this house being haunted, that the ghost of my great uncle roamed about. We discussed it the other day. It is not something I made up. He's been here for years. I am not the only one to have seen him. Why, just last year…" She paused and looked at him carefully. "You've seen him."

"There is no such thing as ghosts. You have created the rumour and spread the story to add interest, an air of glamour and intrigue, to this cottage. You want people to have some idiotic and romantic idea that ghosts exist. For some reason you think I would be fascinated by this, but your chicanery does not fool me."

She nodded, knowingly and sat up a little straighter. "You've seen him, and you are trying to make sense of all of it. Oh, poor Mr. Holmes," she said sympathetically. "You've had a nasty fright as well as an injury. Why don't you tell me all about it."

He watched her carefully for signs of subterfuge. There were none. She honestly believed that she had stayed home last night.

"I could not have seen anything. Ghosts do not exist," he repeated.

"Maybe they do, and maybe they don't, but you have seen something, haven't you?" There was a sympathetic tone to her voice. "Others have, you know. Seen him standing there, on the stairs or in this room. Young and handsome. I have always felt so sorry for him, wondered what it was like for him to be stuck here, cast out so young, not able to move on, missing out on life." Her head turned toward the fireplace. There was a glimmer of tears in her eyes. "He was such an interesting man. Kind, honourable, always wanting to help others. He was a war hero, did I mention that? Shot whilst he was taking care of some injured soldiers. Such a tragic end to a life full of promise." She sighed and looked back at Sherlock. "Now tell me, please Mr. Holmes, what did you see?"

There was something in her voice, some of the same authority Mrs. Hudson held. He couldn't deny Mrs. Hudson much, and there was the same sort of air about Miss Watson. Even if he did not believe in ghosts and knew they were ridiculous nonsense, he could tell her, felt it being drawn out of him. As much as it was out of character for him, he began to speak.

"I felt something touch my hand yesterday morning and heard my name. Last night after returning from Mr. Easton's residence, I stumbled, hit my head and sprained my ankle. When I came home, I was in no condition to look after myself. Someone did. Someone took care of me, ensured I did not sleep overly long and watched me throughout the night. This morning I awoke to this." He stood carefully, hobbled to the mirror and gestured to the words on the glass. Watching Miss Watson through the mirror, he saw her face pale.

"But that's…no, it couldn't be." A shocked expression crossed her face, quickly hidden when Sherlock turned to face her. She seemed to gather herself and look at him almost tearfully. "Mr. Holmes, you have been blessed with a rare event. This has never happened before. I must go and tell Clara. Keep me informed. I need to know if anything else happens. Oh my goodness. Such thrilling news." She gathered her bag and was out the door before Sherlock could say anything. He was slightly impressed with how quickly she moved and how adroitly she evaded further conversation. If he lived that long, he rather hoped he would be of similar nature.

Another glance at the mirror and he departed the room, moving as best he could to the kitchen for a much-needed cup of tea, the other one having grown cold. Returning with it, he sat once more and waited for evening.

It was the touch that woke him, a touch that was slowly becoming familiar. He jerked awake from the light doze he had fallen into, more tired than he had supposed from his ordeal the day before. One could never rely on transport the way one wanted too.

The sun had set, and the room was dark except for a faint glow of a figure standing in front of him.

"Captain Watson," he said slowly.

A frown appeared on Watson's face.

"Am I? I…don't know anymore." His voice was faded and insubstantial, a wisp of sound, hollowed out.

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't know. I don't understand. Do you know?"

"Who you are? You are John Watson, formerly of the army; you fought during WWII and returned home, you set up a practice, involved yourself in a bar fight and promptly disappeared. Rumour and conjecture, neither one reliable, stated that you were possibly murdered on your way home from the pub, and you now haunt this building."

John Watson, if indeed that was who the apparition was, looked at Sherlock with something like astonishment and then his face broke into a lightning grin of amusement. "Do you talk like that all of the time?"

"Yes."

"It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"Almost 70 years."

The sigh came again, and Watson lifted a hand to the back of his head. "I wouldn't believe it if it didn't feel like it, as if I were stuck, like those insects in what do call it? Amber."

His grin slid off his face as he looked around the room. "Now and then I remember bits, pieces really, this room. Bit different in my day."

"Do you remember what happened the night you died?"

Watson's face turned around to face Sherlock again; there was something rather intense about his stare. He shuddered again, but this wasn't fear.

"I'm not."

"You're not what?"

"I'm not dead."

An eyebrow lifted of its own accord. Sherlock leant forward. "You're not dead, or you think you're not dead? It would be helpful if you would be more precise."

Hands back in his pockets, Watson turned to face the fireplace. "I am fairly certain I am not dead. I don't feel dead. Like I said, I feel trapped in between, I guess, and for a long time. Limbo? Neither here nor there? I think that's why sometimes it's hard to remember things."

"Hence the message upon the mirror. You seem to be fairly insubstantial." Rising from his chair, Sherlock made his way to stand beside Watson. As he came closer, he could make out more detail on the clothing Watson was wearing, although it seemed leached of colour and he could see through it and him.

Watson held out a hand to look at it. "Not to me. You mean you can see through me? Odd. I can touch things and move them. I was able to get the items I needed to help you. Although," and he frowned. "I don't remember doing that before then. I might have, I suppose. Maybe. Hmm, bears some thinking."

An impulse that would not have surprised his brother overcame Sherlock and he poked Watson's shoulder.

"Hey!"

"You feel solid. Very strange indeed."

"That hurt!"

"Oh come now. If you're dead, it can't have been too bad. I mean what's it going to do? Kill you more? And if you are in limbo, perhaps there's a way to get you out. And if you are a fraud I don't care either way. This requires some experiments I think."

"Experiments? What are you a mad scientist? Like in the pictures?"

"Hardly."

"Well, I'd prefer not to remain like whatever this is, but not sure I want to be experimented upon."

"Like I said, I can't make you more dead." He ignored the mutter of "I'm not too sure about that" and continued to think, whilst Watson prowled around the room.

"How did you mark the glass?"

"Hmmm?"

"I dislike repeating myself. The mirror? How did you scratch the glass?"

"Ah. Like this." A look of fierce concentration appeared on Watson's face, and he touched the surface of the mirror. He moved his finger and added an exclamation mark after the word 'Me'.

"You should not be able to do that."

"Yeah, well I can."

They stared at each other. The feeling of intensity grew until Watson turned away. A spark, a flash of who knew what; Sherlock could have sworn he smelt ozone. He cleared his throat.

"Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all you remember of the night you disappeared, transformed, left this plane of existence?"

"No need to be sarcastic."

"I'm not. Believe me, you would know if I was sarcastic."

"I don't know. Thoughts and memories come and go."

There was silence as Sherlock, with more than his usual share of patience, waited Watson out.

"Hot, I guess. I felt hot. A bright light maybe? Then very cold. And then nothing."

"Do you remember anyone there? Anyone nearby? Do you remember the bar fight?"

"There was a bar fight? No, not that. I do remember a girl, pretty. I remember chatting her up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course, he'd remember that.

"What about smells? Anything unusual?"

"No, I don't think so. Maybe. Something floral? I don't know. This is very tiring. I can't stay. I feel pulled somewhere. I can come back. I think."

"But you're not sure."

Watson looked him in the eye. "Do you believe me? That I'm here? It's been so long since I've talked to anyone. No one listens. They can't hear me. But you can. Please say you believe me."

Sherlock frowned. "I haven't decided. It is useless theorizing without all of the facts."

"I understand."

There was something forlorn in Watson's voice, and even if it made a fool out of him, Sherlock felt the unfamiliar need to comfort him. "I am not entirely sure of anything. I could be persuaded to tell you that you seem to believe what you have told me. I have also seen things that are rather astonishing, but…"

"No, it's okay. For all you know this is a rather elaborate hoax. I must go." His face twitched as if he wanted to say something more, but he just nodded and was gone, like a flame being snuffed out.

A chill ran through Sherlock as he stood there, staring at the spot where Captain Watson had been moments before. It dawned on him that a new emotion, one he rarely felt these days, crept into his psyche, with the disappearance of Watson.

Loneliness.


	5. The Smell of Apricots

**A/N: Well here's where I start to earn that rating :D This is just a taste so to speak of what is to come *cough, cough – no pun intended – unless you want:P And I promise to finish what I started – I won't leave you hanging:D**

**Thanks again to johnsarmylady and mattsloved1 for their patience and help:)**

5\. The Smell of Apricots

It was a few days later, late in the afternoon, Sherlock's ankle was feeling almost as good as new and his head no longer hurt quite as much, when he found himself once more in the same room where his recent adventures had begun. He sat at the desk and looked at the letter he had started only a few days ago, but now it felt like a lifetime.

He re-read the letter and scowled at the words as if they could give him answers to the oddity his life had become. After another glare at the scrawl on the page, he picked up his pen and began to write once more.

_Mrs. Hudson, you will not be aware, but it is, in fact, several days since I started writing this letter. A rather odd incident has occurred. I am unsure how, precisely, to tell you. You would find it difficult to believe, but I am at loss for words. I realize it is not normal for me to confide in you of the affairs of my mind, things of which I am uncertain. In fact, it is not often I am unsure, and I am rather confused about the whole incident. If I were writing to Mycroft, I would not tell him. He would be concerned that I had relapsed once more and come to check me into a rehabilitation clinic. Of course, this is a moot point. I will not tell Mycroft, and I would certainly never write to him. I implore you not to speak to him about this._

_Let me state that I am fine. I am not hurt, or at least I was but am now recovering. It is all very difficult to describe. Do not be apprehensive. I do not know why, but lately I feel the need to confide in women of your age and station. It is most peculiar, but perhaps it is because you are rather motherly and can, upon occasion, be a good listener, when you are not taken up with your stories and interests. _

_I guess you could say I have met someone. Before your 'squee' of excitement becomes loud enough for me to hear all the way to this cottage, it is not conventional. Yes, you would say, that doesn't strike you as odd, because as we both know neither am I. Before you get all sentimental, it isn't like that. I am not interested in a 'relationship'. Besides, even if I were, it would be a difficult proposition. The person in question is…_

His hand stopped, and he lifted his head to stare out the window. How the hell was he supposed to do this? Should he do this? What was this irrational sentimentality he suddenly felt? To tell Mrs. Hudson, of all people, about his encounter with Captain Watson? Was it simply because he felt the need to tell someone, anyone about it? Or was it that if he wrote it down on paper he could come to trust in the fact, that yes, indeed, it had happened?

God, it made his head pound in a way that had nothing to do with the concussion. He threw the pen down, grabbed the piece of paper and crumpled it, ready to toss it into the waste bin. Before he could, he took the paper, smoothed it and frowned at it. What was happening to him? It was becoming intolerable.

He picked up the pen. Before he could change his mind he scratched out the latest addition to the letter and added:

_Never mind Mrs. Hudson. Ignore me. Ignore all of this. It must have been the fall I had or perhaps I have simply been here too long and am losing my perspective. I need to return to London. Conceivably by this time next week the landline and the Internet will be connected. I must be going. Things to do._

_S. Holmes_

He carefully folded the letter, trying to smooth out the creases once more and placed it in the envelope. It was addressed and left on the desk, ready to be mailed later in the day. After standing and staring out the window a few moments more, a strangely mixed sense of melancholy and anticipation permeating through him, he walked gingerly down the stairs. Between his impaired lungs and his damaged ankle he was in no condition to hurtle himself down the steps.

Reaching the foot of the staircase, he paused, uncertain whether to go into the sitting room. In there was a harsh reminder that his world wasn't what it had once been, orderly, logical, a balance of science and fact. Other people went off on flights of fancy, but not him. He relied on the observations of his senses, the working of his brain and the cold, hard truth of science. He straightened his shoulders. This was ridiculous. Just because his world turned upside down, thanks to the words etched in glass, it didn't mean he couldn't make sense of it. There must be some explanation, some steadiness of reason in what had happened both to him and to Captain Watson. No matter how improbable, the simple truth was, Captain Watson existed, was real and was now standing in front of him.

"Oh, for god's sake. Could you not pop in like that! Are you trying to kill me? I am not sure I can cohabitate with you if you are going to continue to sneak around!"

A chuckle came out of Watson's mouth. His face glowed with the warmth of humour. Sherlock clutched his chest to steady his racing heart and wondered if it was simply the fright he had been given.

"I keep telling you, not dead." Watson continued to grin at Sherlock.

"Be that as it may, you are not precisely alive, either." Sherlock turned and attempted to stalk off in the direction of the sitting room. He was painfully aware it wasn't quite the dignified exit he would have preferred. He thumped himself down in his usual armchair by the fire; a fierce scowl adorned his face. The crackle of flames and a rather pleasant odour emanating from the burning wood distracted him from his anger. He didn't remember lighting a fire, but things seemed to have been confusing the last few days and he must have. He looked into the flames rather than at the remaining vestiges of amusement on Watson's face.

"I'm sorry. I can't seem to be able to control when I pop in and out." Watson stood in front of Sherlock, a contrite expression on his face. "Can I at least make amends by checking your ankle? How's the head by the way?"

Sherlock muttered something inconsequential under his breath but let Watson check his ankle. The touch of Watson's hand sent something humming through him, but he chose to ignore it. _What is wrong with me?_

A quick check and Watson nodded at him. "It looks good. You should still stay off of it and not do too much, but it should be as right as rain in another day or two." He stood and looked carefully at the fading bruise on Sherlock's head. "Head still hurt?"

"Not really," Sherlock said, his temper subsiding with the careful touch and the cool feel of ghostly fingers upon his skin. He shivered. A jolt of something fierce lit his stomach. Watson's eyes snapped to his own. They stared at each other for what seemed like an impossible amount of time but was only seconds.

"Captain Watson," Sherlock began.

"John, please. Call me John. Captain Watson doesn't seem right, somehow."

"All right, John, have you recalled any more details?" A shrug of indifference to the odd feelings he was desperately trying to ignore, he turned to the matters at hand. It had been more than a day since he had last seen John standing in front of the fireplace and there was a certain rightness, a sense of completion to see him here once more.

John shook his head. "No, not really. I can remember a few things more from the war, but nothing much about coming home. Or about the night you asked me about. At the pub."

"What about the girl you mentioned? Anything there?"

A hot spike of something surged through Sherlock as he asked about the girl. He didn't recognize what it was so he shoved it aside as inconsequential.

John stared off into space. "No, no except, I think she had an unusual name. Something I'd not heard before." He shrugged. "I don't know why that has stuck with me."

"You stated there was a smell, something floral."

"Yes, that seems to be coming back. It reminded me of something, maybe not floral, now that I think about it," he looked puzzled. "Is it important?"

"It might be. I need facts, all the facts, to get a clear picture in my mind. Any fact, no matter how inconsequential could be the key."

"Right. Okay. I guess it rather reminded me of apricots, sweet like that, flowery, but not a common smell. I guess it might have been the perfume the girl was wearing." He sighed, his frustration coming through. "I don't know what good this is. I don't remember anything. I don't know what happened, and I don't know how I got here. I don't even know where it is I go in between." His voice started to rise. "Seventy years. I have lost my whole life, and I don't know if I am going to get it back! Do you know what that's like?"

"No, but I can hazard a guess." Sherlock was not without sympathy. He spread his hands. "Can you sit? You seem more substantial today."

It was true. There was more solidness to John, more colour. He was still pale and washed through as if he were an old photograph faded by the sun, but there was a hint of pigment in his shirt and trousers and Sherlock, looking into his face, noted that the dark eyes he would have guessed were brown, held a hint of navy in them. He shook his head. There was something dangerously appealing about looking into John's eyes.

He scrubbed at his mouth. John watched him, his head titled to one side,

Eyebrows lifting, Sherlock looked carefully at John. "Have you ever felt this solid before, this real?"

"No, I don't…wait! Yes, come to think of it. Maybe. I think there was a young couple staying here once, with a child, a boy, maybe five or six. I think she was pregnant. They never saw me, the couple, but the boy did. I spoke to him once or twice. He had red hair. Reminded me a bit of you, come to think of it. He spoke like you, terribly serious he was." A faraway look crossed John's face. He laughed again, a shadow of what his laugh must have been like when he was of this world. Sherlock imagined it rich and full, perhaps with a giggle, there at the end, charming and mischievous. "He was very serious, very proper. Hmm, it's funny, that. I hadn't remembered him until now. Maybe things are coming back." He turned and grinned at Sherlock. "Ah well. So what else? There's something about you that grounds me here, helps me remember. I'm not sure what it is, but it seems to be helping."

As he finished speaking, John sat, a look of pleasurable surprise on his face. He leaned back against the cushions, crossed his legs and his whole body seemed to relax.

"You haven't done this for awhile."

"No, no I don't think I have."

Sherlock looked into the flames, brooding. "There must be something that is causing you to be more here, more in the now as it were. But what is it," he mused.

John sat looking at him; Sherlock could feel the weight of his stare as he watched the flames dancing in the grate. It seemed right somehow, this, the two of them sitting like this, here and now, in front of the fire. It was supposed to be this way. It seemed as if they had done this before, many times. Sherlock felt a slow crawl of something primeval up his spine. He had done this; he had sat like this in front of a fire, flames glowing. Not here in this room and not now. He turned and stared at John who was considering him.

"Did you feel that?" John asked. "Like we've done this before? What the hell is going on? Sherlock? What is this?"

"I don't know. And I don't like what I don't know." He crossed over to the other chair and stood in front of John. "Stand up."

John stood and looked up into Sherlock's face.

"What do you sense? Quickly. Don't think about it. Just say it."

"That I've been here before. Standing here, sitting here, in a similar room, in front of the fire. Many times." Sherlock watched John swallow. He could still see through him, but he was so much more present than he had been. With his eyes, he traced the way his throat convulsed, could see the increased heart rate. He watched as the tip of John's tongue peeked out and licked his lips. He could not look away. A flush crept over him, and he felt warm, but not from the fire. Something filled his senses, washed over him, cresting and falling. Through it all wafted an incredibly rich, sweet smell and the sensation of the steamy heat of a summer spent climbing trees in an orchard. A buzzing sensation filled his head and crashed through whatever emotional restraint he had ever had.

He reached up and placed a shaky hand on John's face, tremors of desire making him unsteady. John's skin felt several degrees cooler than his own. Under his touch, he could feel muscles move, could feel the beginnings of stubble on John's jaw. Part of his brain not swept up in whatever this was noted it and came to the conclusion that John had probably shaved on the morning of his disappearance and not one day since. He swept his hand down and could feel the pulse beat against the palm of his hand. He shook his head. This was not like him. He didn't do this. He didn't want like this.

Because that was what, it was. He wanted John, a man, a ghost, or a presence he didn't know or care. It thudded through his blood and under his skin. It pulsed a beat in his mind, and his vision swam with hunger. His whole body throbbed in time with the rhythm of it, primal, ancient and he couldn't help himself. Before he could finish the motion to bring his mouth down, lips to lips, John kissed Sherlock on the mouth. It was explosive. A seemingly chaste kiss, at first blush, with a brush of heat. It stirred in Sherlock, deep and hidden; he'd never felt this before, but it was so old and familiar. He groaned and raised his other hand he leaned into the kiss. The sweetness of it, the innocence of it, sealed something between them, and he felt an electrical current pass between them.

He stopped and drew back, startled. Eyes darting between John's, noticing how large his pupils were, how much more colour there was present on his face, seeing everything at a glance. How he felt warmer, more alive beneath his fingers.

John groaned as well, sympathetic and mesmerizing and he lifted his hand to cover Sherlock's as he leaned into his chest. Sherlock could just make out what he was saying, the rush of blood, making sound impossible. "What the hell is going on?" he asked, bewildered, tension evident in his face. "Sherlock?"

"I don't know, but I don't want to stop." Leaning in again, he kissed John once more, this time with a hunger born of desperation. There was nothing pure in this kiss. It was filthy and messy, and he wanted John, wanted him ravished and overwhelmed in a way he'd never wanted anything before. John would be his and he would be the cause of his destruction as they melted into a new entity.

They sank to the floor, wrapped up in each other, touching, aching, caressing. Sherlock found his clothing was practically ripped off of him, an unspoken need for John to touch and grip his skin and chase him with his mouth and tongue. He gasped as those sinful lips moved down his throat and feral teeth bit at his skin. Unfairly there seemed no way to remove John's clothing. He could feel John under his fingers, and he could grip the clothing he wore, but they could not be taken off. He held on to them desperately as if he was drowning, his very skin on fire with need and want and raging lust.

They were so wrapped up with one another that neither of them saw or heard anything. There were only the two of them, spread on the floor in front of the fire; fire reflected in the malevolent and satisfied eyes peering through the window.


	6. Herb Lore

**A/N: Being stuck in the house due to snow squalls is helpful in writing it sees. I can't remember the last time I wrote so much:D**

**Thank you to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over and for Brit picking:D**

**See herb notes at the end.**

6\. Herb Lore

Sherlock lay back and pulled John with him. It was such an odd sensation. John weighed nothing but there was substance to him. It was similar to the impression of cloth lying against his body. John's skin, what he could touch, was still several degrees cooler than his own, and there was the sensation of it being impermanent. He'd felt more brushing aside cobwebs. In spite of it all, he could detect John's fingers as they kneaded his skin and swept down from his throat to just above his pants. He didn't remember taking off his trousers. Teasingly, John's finger brushed lightly at the top of the elastic and dipped underneath, feather light. His mouth was trailing kisses and paused over Sherlock's right nipple. A tongue came out and swirled around. The contact of John's mouth fondling him was so unusual. His tongue generated no moisture, but the difference in temperature caused him to react. He lifted up his hips, attempting to grind them together. He whined. There wasn't enough pressure to relieve the ache in his groin. John looked up and grinned. It was decidedly weird to see the furniture through John's head.

Part of his brain couldn't seem to help to analyze and to carry on these comparisons. The other part of his mind wished it would shut the hell up. Definitely the strangest encounter he had ever experienced. His analytical mind was being overwhelmed by sensations occurring all over his body, and he found he didn't care about his brain right now. He craved the impressions flowing through his body. It had been years since he had felt the need to relieve himself sexually and he never remembered it being this good, this intense. Perhaps it had something to do with always keeping part of himself at bay, never fully sinking into the sensuality of the experience. He found the more John kissed him, the more his brain began to shut down, and there was a heady feeling rushing through him, but it was quiet inside his mind for the first time in forever.

John's fingers gripped the top of his pants and tugged them down. Sherlock's cock sprang out, rigid and full. He gasped as coolness tentatively touched his tip. He looked up and saw John's eyes gleaming at him as his tongue swept out again, this time licking a little more confidently. With a hedonistic grin, John nudged the swollen member with the tip of his nose and inhaled. He licked the underside, with firm, even strokes. Sherlock's head fell back again as he gasped once more. Neurons started misfiring as his cock was slowly covered by John's mouth. He glanced up again, his breath coming faster as he watched John continue to caress him with his tongue. He panted harder, and he stuttered out, "I'm …oh god…I'm not… I'm going to come. Oh, John, please." It had been so long it wasn't going to take much. The pervading scent of his musk along with the enticing smell, which still drifted through the room, was enough.

John lifted his head and wrapped his hand around Sherlock. The touch of his hand pumping him sent Sherlock over the edge. Sherlock knew he yelled something during his release; he just couldn't be sure what it was. Everything in his head was silent. He closed his eyes and listened to his ragged breathing, just present in the wonder of how still his mind had become. As he'd orgasmed, it seemed that he'd travelled across the universe.

Coming back to himself, he groggily looked up and stared, a bit vacuously into a slightly worried face. John had apparently crawled up his body and was now lifting a cautious hand. A sweep of his eyes over Sherlock, checking to see if he was all right, he nodded and skimmed the hand through Sherlock's hair, clutching briefly at his curls. He then tenderly brushed his cheek.

Sherlock stammered a bit. "That was…um…that…that thing you did…that was…"

"Sudden?" laughed John, such a joyous sound it made his heart clench.

He shook his head worry beginning to creep inside.

"That was good. Very good." He leaned up and kissed John. He felt he had to, to thank him or to reassure him. He didn't know. It was polite.

There was no taste of the flavour of his skin on John's tongue. It was just mouth and lips with a hint of teeth.

Sherlock broke the kiss.

"Are you…do you…?" It would seem he had lost the ability to form a cohesive sentence. Moving his hand in the general vicinity of John's privates, he decided it would be appropriate to see if John required assistance, even if a part of him began to squirm at the thought.

John frowned. "Ummm, no, it appears not. I mean I feel things, and I desperately want to continue kissing you but, no, I don't think I can do, er, other things." John blushed. Sherlock's eyes widened. He could see the colour infuse his face.

He continued to stare at John not even aware that his eyes kept flicking down to his mouth. John laughed again, and gripping the back of Sherlock's head he pulled him into a softer kiss; he turned his head a bit, coaxed Sherlock's tongue out gently and licked the inside of his mouth. With a reluctant sigh, Sherlock broke it off again. "You're very good at this," he murmured through downcast eyelashes.

The warm chuckle coming from John seemed to shoot right through Sherlock and left him feeling slightly lightheaded. Unease filled him, but it was what he had to do, what he needed to do. He hated himself a little, but he ruthlessly clamped down on those emotions. He must regain self-control. He didn't do this, whatever this was.

"Um, well, thanks. I uh, have a, had I guess, a bit of a reputation. In the army," John said. "But I never had a relationship with a man before."

In spite of his wanting to get this over with, he was surprised at John's confession and responded. "Never? Because you showed promise."

"No. I had feelings, and I wondered, but yeah, no, not ever."

"Huh."

"Are you always this eloquent?" Sherlock looked long into John's eyes, so warm and rich, such a tender and loving smile on his face. He could stay here forever and sink into him. This was not good.

Sherlock smiled, not even aware that it was a shy, endearing smile. "That's all I've ever had. I've never been interested in women, not really."

"Have things changed? It was a bit not good in my day. You'd go to prison." John worried at his lower lip.

"Well there are idiots who still frown at it, but it's perfectly legal. You can even get married." Why the hell had he said that?

John continued to look at him, and Sherlock could feel his heart rate increase again, but the disquiet rolled through his brain, telling him to be practical. Never had any of the other sexual acts he'd had been like this, this compelling, this connected. It scared him, and he could feel his analytical mind begin to take over. This was not who he was. He didn't do this. He could feel his skin burn a little as he blushed. He needed to clamp down on runaway emotions.

"John…I don't usually do this, this thing we did. I have schooled myself to ignore urges, and I don't indulge very often. I, uh, feel that it would be foolish to carry on. I pride myself on ignoring my body. It is just transport after all and…"

"Well it's not exactly like we can have a regular relationship now is it?"

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure, but he thought he detected a bit of hurt in John's voice. That was unfortunate. It would make this more difficult and far more tedious. He sat up, pushing John aside and grimaced, suddenly aware of his ejaculate, cold and wet, on his chest. It was all very messy, all of this, feelings and sex. He reached around for a box of tissues and hastily cleaned himself. He was not good at this, not good at all. Relationships were hazardous, time-consuming and oh for god's sake John was a ghost. This was ludicrous. John should know it was a one-time thing, and this was not his area, comforting dead people.

"John, I want you to know I am grateful for what just happened, but I think you will find that we cannot continue…hang on, what is that?"

He sat up, not paying the least attention to John, who was looking increasingly stricken at Sherlock's words. Crawling over to the fireplace, he picked up the yellow spike of a flower, which had caught his eye. Thin and stalky, it was covered in small yellow flowers all up and down its shaft. He looked it over carefully. "How did this get in here?" Lifting it up to his nose, he inhaled deeply. A sudden wave of desire swept through him once more, but it was muted and more controlled. He also noticed there was a distinct odour of, "apricots," he said.

John's face, wreathed in hurt and confusion of Sherlock's backpedalling, cleared momentarily and took on a puzzled expression.

"Apricots?"

"Yes. This flower, herb most likely, smells of apricots. I should know what this is."

"Are you a botanist, too?"

Sherlock didn't hear the slightly sarcastic note to John's voice or the pain that permeated it.

"Hmmm? Yes," he said absentmindedly, as he continued to look at the plant, his higher functions returning once more with the introduction of the mystery of the plant. It was niggling at his brain.

He suddenly stood, crossed the room to the bookcase on the far wall and rooted through the books looking for one he remembered seeing when he first arrived. At the time, he'd hoped to find something worthwhile but they were mostly romance novels or fantasy. There were several books on British wildlife including a book on native plants. He flipped quickly through the pages.

"Agrimony," he said. "It is a herb. Small, common. Noted for its fragrant smell of apricots. But it shouldn't be here. It blooms through the summer and into September. It's odd to see it in late autumn. I suppose it's possible. John, look and see if there's any in the fireplace? John?"

But there was no one in the room with him.

He was alone.

oOo

It had been early afternoon when Sherlock had succumbed to the temptations of the flesh as his stupid, stupid brain kept calling it.

He sighed. He didn't know how everything had become so muddled. He was never afraid, not of facing criminals, never afraid of scoring remarks off of the inept police or his annoying brother.

But he was terrified he had just messed up whatever that had been between him and John. He wanted John to come back so he could fumble his way through an apology. And John needed to know he never apologized.

He sat forward in the chair he had occupied since John's disappearance.

"Errrggggg!" he groaned. "This is unacceptable. You've had your first sexual experience in years, and you think you have fallen in love with a dead man." He ranted, stomping and limping around the room. What the hell was wrong with him?

He stooped down and put on his fallen clothes one by one. He stopped and looked at his shirt and lifted it to his nose, wondering if there would be hints of John on it.

There was nothing. No scent, just himself.

He didn't like himself very much at the moment.

He finished buttoning up his shirt, bent and retrieved his shoes from under the sofa. Looking wildly around the room he knew there must be some way to fix this.

"John?" he called. "John, I'm sorry?"

Nothing. No sound, no hint of presence. There was nothing.

He sighed.

The room felt stuffy with just himself and his brain. He crossed over to the window and opened it a bit. The cold afternoon breeze blew in, and his head cleared. The thrum of desires that had continued to run under his skin were still there but not as consuming.

That was decidedly odd.

Everything was odd.

Over on the table, he'd left the sprig of herb and the botany book. He picked them up and stared, his brain beginning to come back online. Certain in his deductions, he looked in the fireplace. There he found more of the herb, just a few pieces that had missed being consumed by the fire.

He stood thinking, his eyes darting back and forth.

Decided, he limped to the front door, scooped up his coat and threw it on. He knew he shouldn't be walking around on his ankle, but he needed to ask someone about this herb. Someone local. It was aggravating not having access to the Internet.

oOo

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, so nice to see you again. I didn't think you'd be back so soon. Come in, come in."

"Thank you, Mr. Easton. I came to ask you a question. Do you know anything about herb lore?"

"Herblore? No, can't say I do. I know what plants the bees like, but hang on a tick. Ruth?" he called, walking away from Sherlock to the back of the house.

"Yes?" Ruth Easton called back.

"Can you come here a minute? Mr. Holmes here needs some information."

Mrs. Easton came bustling from the back of the house, looking like she had been interrupted from her baking, judging from the flour on her apron.

"Hello Mr. Holmes, what can we do for you?"

Sherlock pulled the sprig out of his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Easton.

She frowned. "That's agrimony. Quite common around here. But you don't usually see it this time of the year, at least not in bloom. I guess you might find it sheltered somewhere."

"Oh aye, I recognize it. The bees, they like it. Adds a nice flavour to the honey," piped up Mr. Easton.

"Yes, thank you." Sherlock tried to shove his impatience down. After all, he quite liked Mr. and Mrs. Easton and needed their help.

"I was wondering if either of you knew any lore associated with it?"

"Oh yes, said Mrs. Easton. "I use to study plants and herbs and such. Was quite fascinated at one time with home remedies, made my own tonics from wildflowers and hand cream and such from the bee's wax. It's supposed to be good for fevers, it's a diuretic too, I believe. Old wives tales say if you place it under your pillow you'll sleep, you know as a cure for insomnia, that sort of thing."

"Anything else?" said Sherlock. None of those things were helpful.

"Well, yes," she giggled. "According to one book I read, in mediaeval times the midwives, you know what people use to think were witches, would use it in spells. If you boil it in milk, it was supposed to cure impotence in men."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "I wonder what would happen if you burnt it."

"Oh now, Mr. Holmes. It's just a tale. I think it would just smell a bit and then burn up. It would be nice in a potpourri, though."

"Yes, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Easton. I believe you have been most helpful." He smiled the smile he usually saved for Mrs. Hudson and nodding to the couple, he left.

He was very thoughtful on the way home, taking his time and nursing his ankle. Opening the door to the cottage, he paused and then walked in, throwing his coat on the hook.

"John?" he called. "John, please come back. I need to talk to you."

There was no sound, not even that of the house settling.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He made tea and thought.

Something was going on. He knew he didn't have all of the pieces yet, but there was most definitely something. He knew now he had not lit the fire in the sitting room, and he certainly had not gone out, gathered the herb and thrown it on the fire. He sighed as he switched off the stove and poured boiling water over the teabag. Letting it steep, he pulled the sugar jar down from the cupboard and scooped out two teaspoons full. His stomach rumbled. The exertions of the afternoon were catching up with him, and he hadn't eaten since breakfast. Normally he didn't eat when there was a mystery to solve, but smiling ruefully he didn't normally engage in sex with ghosts either.

He rummaged in the fridge and found some apples that were still good. He bit into one and took his tea, made his way back to the sitting room.

Not really noticing, he consumed the apple in about four bites. He drank his tea and stretched out on the couch to think.

He must still have been recovering from the recent injures compiled with his illness and fell into a light doze. When he awoke, it was dark and the clock on the wall chimed midnight.

A faint glow was coming from the chair he usually sat in caught his eye.

He left the couch and walked over to John. He looked down into the kind face staring at him and felt a lump in his throat. He knelt gracefully and laid a hand upon John's knee.

John was sitting there, a stoic expression on his face. "I've come to apologize, Sherlock…"

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock said at the same time. "I didn't know how to handle what happened." He paused as he realized John had been talking. He cleared his throat. "Let me speak first. Please. I am at fault here, not you." John nodded cautiously. "John, I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I think I was overwhelmed by the loss of control. But I wanted to say, I need to say, John, I don't have friends. I've only got one." And he leaned up and kissed John solidly on the mouth. He could feel John's mouth moving under his own, reluctantly at first and then with a sigh, John reached up and pulled Sherlock to him, opening his mouth and drawing Sherlock's tongue in. They kissed and caressed each other for a few minutes until John stopped to talk.

"You hurt me, Sherlock. I don't know what to say to you, except please don't do that again." He smiled at Sherlock, who was shocked to see tears in John's eyes. Sherlock hastily leaned forward and kissed John's eyelids.

Leaning back on his heels, Sherlock said, "It won't John. I won't. I can't promise I'll be good at this, but I won't hurt you."

They kissed a bit longer and then Sherlock stood and led John back to the couch.

"We need to talk. No, not about us, about what's going on. I found some information today regarding the smell in the room. That herb I found, it's called agrimony. According to a woman I know, at one time it was believed it would cure impotence. I think someone may have used it in combination with other things and burned it in the fire. Something changed it and caused us to be overcome by sexual desire. It is not," he hesitated. He had promised not to hurt John. "It is not something I would normally do, John. I don't regret it. And if we figure out how to get you out of this limbo you are in and in my time period, I would be actively interested in maintaining a relationship with you." He failed to notice John's smile at the way he spoke. "I believe we had an intruder who came to the cottage and started the fire with the express purpose of enticing us to have sexual intercourse."

He stood and walked around the room. "But why? For what purpose and what would they gain? There must be someone else besides Ms. Watson who has a key to this cottage. But who?"

"Who did you say?"

"Hmmm? Oh. Ms. Watson, your great-niece. It would be strange for you to realize that she is older than you. I am given…"

"Sherlock."

"…to understand she was in her teens when you disappeared, but so…"

"Sherlock!"

"What is it?" he said, slightly exasperated to have been interrupted.

"That is not possible."

"What is?"

"I can't have a great-niece. I'm an only child."

**A/N: Most of the lore in regards to agrimony is correct. I, unlike Sherlock in this story, have access to the Internet. I have taken a little bit of creative license and will take a little more in the subsequent chapters.**


	7. The Colliding of Two Worlds

**A/N: Almost there folks. Two chapters to go after this one:)**

**Thank you mattsloved1 and johnsamrylady for typo patrol, Britpicking, suggestions and being an all around cheer squad:D.**

7\. The Colliding of Two Worlds

Sherlock stood outside of the small post office. In his hand he held three letters, two addressed to Mrs. Hudson. The first was the one he had started when things were still a bit normal. The second was one he had finished this morning, lying in the bed he had shared with John the night before. He turned them over again and ran a hand across the name written there. He believed he was not sentimental, but he did feel tenderness toward Mrs. Hudson. She admired him and had always been grateful for his help in getting her appalling husband out of her life. He guessed Mrs. Hudson was like a favourite aunt, one who indulged in his whims and eccentricities.

Would she understand the course he had now set himself? Would she forgive him?

The third letter was a note to his parents. Mycroft was well aware of what he was up to. Indeed, perhaps all of this was Mycroft's fault, and he had set Sherlock on this path years ago.

He dropped the letters in the box and then walked back to the cottage to set things in motion. As he strolled, he thought about the night of discovering Ms. Watson wasn't whom she said and all that had happened leading up to today's events.

He wondered if he had any regrets. Probably not. He was as ready as he would ever be to say goodbye.

Ready to attempt to slay a few dragons before he left.

It certainly hadn't turned out to be the restful boring holiday he had started.

No, this was more fun.

oOo

Sherlock blinked rapidly at John.

"Now that is interesting. But why? Why would she say she was? Who is she? And what does she have to gain from lying? Wouldn't people in the town suspect her? They would know she wasn't related. Everyone around here knows everyone's business. But what if they didn't know John if he was new to this village. If she just showed up one day, claiming...but what reason would she have to pretend to be John's great-niece? Property laws and deeds. I need property titles. All the deeds. I'll have to wait until tomorrow to get to the library. I need the Internet. They'll have access there."

The next few minutes Sherlock muttered as he waved his arms around, discussing and arguing with himself.

Finally, he whirled on John who stood there watching, a bemused expression on his face.

"Did you live in this cottage before you went into the army? Or did you come to be here after the war?"

John frowned and rubbed at his forehead. "I think I moved here after, but there have always been Watsons in this area, moved here from Scotland, I think. It's a bit muddled, Sherlock. Why would anyone say they were related to me if they weren't? It doesn't make sense."

"I already asked that question, do keep up. I wonder if this is some elaborate scam to gain control of your property. But it doesn't add up unless there's more than meets the eye about this particular piece of land. I wonder if she is responsible for your death. Have you remembered the name of the woman you met at the bar?"

"No, but I think, maybe it started with an H?"

"Harriet?"

"No, but Harry! She went by Harry. I remember asking who would name their daughter Harry and she laughed and said it was a nickname. Said her name was old and hard to pronounce."

"She met you at the pub; you had drinks?" John shrugged. "Perhaps she drugged you or did something to you, and that explains your memory loss. I wish we knew more."

"I don't remember much of anything. Sherlock, this is pointless. You're not going to find anything out from me. I simply don't remember, and I doubt I will."

"Perhaps, but you know you've become more present the last few days. You might remember if I can figure out how to bring you here. And to do that I need to speak to the one person who may very well have been the last to see you, I guess not alive, since you insist you're not dead, but on this plane of existence."

Looking concerned, John stood up and went to Sherlock. "Don't go now. It's late, and you've still not recovered. Wait until morning."

"That's not good enough. I need to speak to her."

"Sherlock, where's she going to go? She'll be asleep. You should go to bed."

"I don't sleep when there's a case on."

John snorted. "You were asleep on the sofa. "

"Yes, well that's different. I was in my mind palace."

"What the hell is a mind palace? And there was definite snoring going on."

"A mind palace is an effective way to organize thought and memory. I remember anything of value and store it in my brain. Anything useless gets deleted.

John stepped closer. "Am I in there? A bit maybe?" He stroked Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock felt his breathing quicken. "Most definitely, John, you are in there. Even if we hadn't had sexual relations, you'd be there. You are the most fascinating person I have ever met. You are engrained in me. I can't imagine not ever have known you. Do you remember standing in front of the fire and thinking we had been here before? It's like that up here as well. I can't imagine never knowing you."

John crooked his neck and then he went up on his toes and kissed Sherlock. It was a quick kiss, soft and chaste, but Sherlock felt his skim thrum and burn with the ache of it, the sweetness of it. He was glad, very glad that his responses to John and John kissing him were not simply because of a chemical reaction to the agrimony concoction in the fireplace but to John himself. It was odd not being able to smell and taste John. He knew that was a key element of being with someone. Pheromones were important, but John himself and what he was, seemed to be enough to set him off.

He looked down at John and smiled; a smile most would have trouble recognizing. It was warm and happy and lit up his eyes. He lifted his hands and placed them on John's neck, cupping his head. He kissed him much deeper and longer than he had before. He twisted his head a little and flicked his tongue into John's, licking and caressing with his tongue and mouth. Closing his eyes, John placed his hands over Sherlock's and moved his mouth with his.

They stopped and leaned their heads together.

"Take me to bed, Sherlock, please. There's nothing you can do tonight. I want," he swallowed, "I need to be with you. I have this panicky sensation in my chest. It feels like we have limited time and I want you while I can. I have never felt like this with anyone before. Please, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at John. He was right, there was nothing that would be gained by rushing out tonight. "I will need to go into the next village over and find the library. They should have Internet, and I can do a search. Or at the very least I can contact my brother and have him do it for me. There must be a connection between this property and what she did to you. I wish I knew what was done."

"Perhaps I will remember something else tonight. My memory seems stronger when we're together." John's eyes gleamed with mischief.

"You just want to use me," Sherlock murmured in his ear. "How terrible for me." He ran a hand down John's back to his arse and squeezed it. There was more definition to the muscles and flesh. They were more solid under his hand, the promise of hidden delights. He couldn't make any headway on John's clothing. He desperately wanted to see what was underneath, to explore John's secrets, see what his scars looked like, discover if he had freckles. He wanted John to writhe and moan, make his body sweat so he could lick and taste and scent him.

Taking John by the hand, he led him up to the bedroom. He sat John on the bed and stood in front of him. Slowly, he opened his shirt, maintaining eye contact. The last time had been hurried, a haze of drug-induced frenzy. He wanted to see and experience everything, slow it down and take his time.

Moving to undo the buttons on his cuffs, John's hand stayed him. He grasped Sherlock's wrist, and he pulled it gently behind his back. Sherlock's other hand was pulled back to join it. John held both wrists in one hand and with his free hand, he tugged the shirt off of his shoulders and carefully wrapped it, so it was circling both hands. Sherlock was effectively trapped and couldn't move his arms.

"Let me," John breathed into his ear. "I can't do anything except this. I can't respond to you the way I want to, so let me have this. Let me make this about you. Let me do this for you."

Sherlock hadn't known he wanted this. A shaky nod, his breathing coming faster, he stood there and let John do what he wanted. It started with John running his hand through Sherlock's hair, and he gently kissed him, mouths moving together, unhurried. His free hand travelled down the long pale throat with a stop to feel the pulse and John smiled into the kiss at the discovery of how fast it was beating. He continued down to Sherlock's nipples, pale and perfect. His fingers skimmed and rubbed, playing with the nub, twisting it. Then he moved to the other, as responsive as the first.

A shake and a moan and John broke off the kiss to murmur to Sherlock, "You are utterly lovely, did you know?" Sherlock shook his head, his voice muted with desire surging through him. He couldn't have talked if he had wanted to, with all of the things John was doing with his hand and fingers.

The hand left off on the nipples and swept back and forth, pressing against Sherlock's belly. Then John managed to undo the expensive trousers, and he reached into his pants. Sherlock gasped and tilted his head back as John withdrew his cock. It felt so full and heavy and so perfect in John's hand. Moving his head to look down, he watched as John's thumb slowly encircled the tip, wiping the pre-cum gathered there. The fingers caressed and tormented, the hand moved back and forth, tugging. John kissed his neck, and he let go of Sherlock's hands, trusting him to stay put. Still grasping his cock, John turned and guided him until he sat on the bed. He then moved him, so Sherlock was lying on his side, his hands wrapped in his shirt behind him.

"All right?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

Crawling onto the bed, he manoeuvred until he was snuggled up against Sherlock, his chest to Sherlock's back.

Leaning his head over, he flung his arm across and touched Sherlock's chest. His hand swept up and down, warming Sherlock's skin. He stopped to play with the pink buds of his nipples until Sherlock was tossing and moaning, bucking his hips forward. The entire time, John kissed the back and side of his neck and whispered things in his ear. Sherlock shuddered, as John bit him; the sensations swept through and were becoming overwhelming. He was afraid he would come too soon.

"John, please. I don't want…"

"Shhh, it will be good. I promise." John nuzzled his neck. It was like nothing Sherlock had experienced before, and he huffed, trying to control his body.

He shuddered again as John moved his hand further down and began to lightly stroke him with the tips of his fingers. Then he steadied his strokes around the base and his touches becoming firmer as the pace quickened into a constant rhythm. On every other upward stroke, John did something with his thumb to the tip and caused Sherlock to shout out.

Panting, Sherlock said, "You, um, uh, you said you've never been with a man before?"

"I know what I like and what works for me. I'm just trying different things to see what you enjoy. It appears you like this." He continued his ministrations. Sherlock shook his head back and forth and thrust his hips up.

It was too much and without warning, Sherlock felt himself begin to come. John continued to caress him through. With closed eyes, Sherlock let the sensation sweep over him.

The world returned, and he realized he was breathing hard. Opening his eyes, he turned carefully to look at John over his shoulder, and he smiled before he awkwardly kissed him. John's hand continued to fondle him as they kissed through Sherlock's endorphin rush.

Carefully extricating Sherlock from his shirt, John used it to wipe up the mess on Sherlock's chest. He pulled up the duvet over them. He occasionally flicked a nipple to make Sherlock shudder again, while he kissed him, his tongue flicking in and out of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock hummed, exhaustion overcoming him.

He drifted off to the feeling of John spooning with his hand resting on his belly, occasionally it moved back and forth, stroking the skin. Sleep was deep as he slipped beneath the waves of want and need and the wonder of being held.

oOo

When he awoke, John was gone. A feeling of bereavement and loss permeated his morning routine. There was nothing he could do or say to make John come to him. It was a waiting game. John would return when he was able.

Dressed, he made his way downstairs and ate some breakfast.

The day was cold, but he was able to walk better than he had the day before. His ankle seemed to be behaving. Arriving at the neighbours' he knocked on the door. Mrs. Easton opened it.

"Good morning Mr. Holmes. What can I do for you today?"

"I was wondering if it would be possible to borrow your car. I know it is short notice, but I have an urgent errand to run in the next village over."

"Of course. We hardly ever drive anywhere. It just sits, wasting away. Come in for a moment whilst I find the keys."

Sherlock stood in the entryway waiting for Mrs. Easton. When she returned. He asked her the question foremost in his mind.

"Mrs. Easton, how well do you know Ms. Watson?"

"Ms. Watson? I can't say I know her well, just enough to nod and say hello or to complain about the price of beef these days when we met at the market. She seems a fair and honest woman. Folks been renting that cottage for years now and always seem happy. Any particular reason?"

"No, no reason, just idle curiosity. Have you lived here long?"

"Me? Not as long as some. We moved here in the late '80's. It seemed a quiet spot. We were both tired of city life. Had no children. Not much for young people to do around here anyway."

Sherlock took the keys, thanked her and left, promising not to have the car for too long.

The drive to the next village was pleasant. Although cold outside the sky was clear. He arrived, found the library and entered. Having made the acquaintance of the librarian, he was ensconced in front of a computer screen and spent some time perusing the government land registry records website. Local records, old microfiche files, newspaper articles that had been scanned, were also accessible on the computer. After a time, he sat staring at the screen. Most of the information he required was not directly available or wouldn't be accessible for several days.

He sighed and looked at his mobile. There was a strong signal, so he went outside and called the one person to whom he didn't want to owe a favour.

"Mycroft, how's the diet?"

"Sherlock, I am surprised it has taken you this long to contact me."

That caused Sherlock to pause. "You know what's going on?"

"I knew you would be bored, and I thought you would have called me days ago. Why have you called? Are you in some trouble?"

"No, of course not. You always think the worst. I am in need of some information. Knowing you, you may already have some of what I require."

"And what is this information?"

"Any and all information on Ms. Harriet Watson."

"Sherlock, what are you up to?"

"Why, brother dear, whatever do you mean?"

"As Ms. Watson is your landlady for the moment, I suspect you think something about her is worth investigating."

Sherlock hesitated. Mycroft would at best be dubious; at worst he would think he was high.

With the deep sigh of one who found explaining himself tedious, he told Mycroft of the events of the previous few days.

There was silence on the other end.

"Are you high?"

"I thought you would think that. Don't be wearisome. Of course not."

"No, I don't think you are."

"Mycroft, can you help me?"

"Yes, actually, I believe I can. And this is why."

Sherlock listened, his emotions cycled through astonishment, betrayal, to amusement and finally resignation as Mycroft spoke to him. His was almost as fantastical a tale as Sherlock's own.

"So you see brother, why I couldn't tell you everything before?"

"Yes, I do. You believe I can do this, do you?"

"I have faith in you. You will be righting a wrong and saving possibly more than one life. Are you willing?"

"You already know the answer to that, do you not?"

There was a very long pause.

"Sherlock, I will miss you."

Unexpectedly his throat developed a lump.

"If this works, I will let you know."

"How?"

Sherlock smiled. "I'm sure I will figure that out. I am far more clever than you give me credit for." He hung up. There was nothing else left to be said.

oOo

He drove the car back to the Easton, thanked them and told them he would probably be leaving sooner rather than later. The old couple was sad to see him go, but extracted a promise from him that should he be in the neighbourhood again he must stop in and see them. Mr. Easton pressed a jar of honey into Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he walked back to the cottage. The sun was setting behind and the evening air was crisp and clean. It was going to be a lovely night.

He entered and after he hung up his coat, he called for John.

"In here, Sherlock."

John was waiting for him in the sitting room. He was definitely more solid. He seemed to have almost caught up to this era, which meant Sherlock did not have much time. He walked across the floor and took John's hands in his own. He explained all he had learned and then he outlined his plan.

John was very still, and a shadow of sadness crossed his face.

"Is there no other way?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Are you sure? I don't think I deserve this."

"John, if this works out, we will be together, always."

"If. If is a big word.'

"Have faith. Come to bed with me? It might be our last chance, and I seem to have become somewhat addicted to you." He lifted a hand and kissed John. John smiled at him, and the shadows in his eyes lifted.

They went upstairs.

In the morning, after Sherlock awoke to find John had disappeared, he wrote his second letter to Mrs. Hudson. He then ate, dressed and walked to the village to the post.

Returning to the cottage, he dug out his mobile and was thankful for a good signal. He didn't want to go to Ms. Watson. He wanted her to come here. To the scene where she had started this many years before.

He heard the phone ring on the other end. A cheerful voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Watson, good day to you. I have a question for you."

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. What can I do for you today?"

"I was wondering when you were going to tell me you had plans to use me?"

There was complete silence on the other end for quite a few minutes and then a loud and hearty laugh.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you are far too clever. When did you figure it out?"

"Actually not clever enough. I only discovered it yesterday, and I required my brother's assistance. Most embarrassing."

"Your brother? I remember him. I should have done away with him years ago, but the death of a child is highly frowned upon."

"Do I need to ask you to come over or are you on your way?"

"I will be there before the clock strikes twelve. There's symmetry to this, Mr. Holmes. It must be done right. I trust you will not run away?"

"No, I will be here waiting for you. John will be here as well."

"I see you've done it properly then, excellent. Cheerio."

The phone clicked, and Sherlock grimaced at the receiver.

It was odd agreeing to one's passing when the person about to ensnare you was so cheerful about it.


	8. Love is a Chemical Defect

**A/N: Thank you to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for checking &amp; picking:D **

8\. Love is a Chemical Defect

It was a slower walk back to the house than the mad dash to the cottage had been. The greasy smell of smoke filled the air, and small flakes of ash drifted in the wind.

With heavy steps, Mr. Easton entered the house to break the news to his wife. She waited for him by the door.

"There's no way he was able to get out. The fire was too swift. The whole house was destroyed. There's nothing left but some charred beams and stones."

Mrs. Easton wiped her eyes. "Oh, that poor lad. Is there anyone to be contacted? Did he have any family?"

Mr. Easton cleared his throat, sadness heavy in his heart. He would miss Mr. Holmes and fire was never a pleasant death. "Aye. A man showed up near the end. Said he was his brother. He looked around, and I saw him speaking to one of the lads. He seemed I don't know how to put this, but he seemed resigned like he half expected it."

"Young Mr. Holmes was an odd one, to be sure. Perhaps his brother has been imagining his life would be short. Can't be easy, though."

"It's not the worst of it. Two bodies were pulled out. Apparently Ms. Watson was visiting. She perished in the fire as well."

"Whatever will happen to Ms. Brown? She isn't well, poor dear, what with her memory going."

"Come on, my love. Let's go and have a cup of tea. There's nothing to be done at the moment. Perhaps later we can go down and visit Ms. Brown."

oOo

Sherlock sat in the chair with his hands steepled, and he looked with some expectation at Ms. Watson, sitting calmly across from him. Her partner Clara sat on the sofa, humming quietly to herself. She seemed a little lost, as the light had gone from her eyes. Sherlock deduced that she had some form of dementia, possible Alzheimer's.

Ms. Watson sipped at her tea and smiled as she placed the cup in the saucer and put them down on the coffee table. "Now that is a lovely cup of tea, Mr. Holmes. You have honoured me. Thank you."

"Many would be surprised that I am quite capable of playing the host, Ms. Watson. My mother did instil a few manners into me, even if I usually choose to ignore them."

She smiled a motherly smile at him.

"Shall we get to business, then Mr. Holmes? You have figured out what is going on?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, I required the help of my brother. For years, he knew all about your secret and what you've been hiding. Apparently he has had to be patient and wait for events to reach fruition. I suppose it is fortunate that he learned of this and not me as I have little in the way of patience."

"Fortunate for you? Or fortunate for me?" her smile stretched further, almost into the range of jovial.

"That remains to be seen. Shall I tell you what I know? I have quickly become an admirer of your craftiness."

"I suspect, Mr. Holmes, you rather enjoy showing off what you know."

Sherlock bowed slightly in her direction. "Since we know so much about each other, please call me Sherlock. And I may call you…?"

"I'm not caught that easily. Names have power, or at least they do among my kind. You may call me Harriet. It is a nickname. Besides, you'd never be able to pronounce my real name."

"Very well. I know you are very old…"

"So much for manners."

"Ancient in fact…"

"Tut, tut, my dear boy, not a nice thing to say to a lady."

"And you are in fact no lady."

A light, carefree laugh rang through the room, silvery and much younger-sounding than seemed likely coming from the person sitting on the couch. "Oh my dear, you have done it right. Oh very well, no use pretending. It is true, but I was hoping you'd go deeper. There's so much more to it than just that."

"As I am aware. Would you like to hear my side? What I know about your family history?"

"Yes, please, do go on. It is not often that I get to see how clever you have all become."

Sherlock stood to think more clearly. He was able to sit still when necessary, but sometimes he needed to jump around to better shape the liquid flow of his thoughts. His mind was flickering so fast that if he didn't move his brain would smoke or steam. He cleared his throat and began.

"In the autumn of 1975, before my birth, my mother, my father and my older brother came here for a holiday. On a rainy day with nothing to do and my parents otherwise occupied, Mycroft, while exploring the house, encountered the ghost of John Watson. In spite of being rather sceptical, he became friendly with John. Mycroft never forgot the experience and although at times he has questioned it, he soon found himself drawn to the story, repeatedly. He researched John Watson, and he also investigated the property upon which the house was built. It led him to investigate you.

"What he discovered intrigued him. He found that Harriet Watson had popped into existence shortly after the supposed death of John. She arrived in town claiming to be a grandniece. Interestingly, she did not claim to have inherited the land. I was under the mistaken assumption that this was all some elaborate property scam. She had documents to prove that she already owned the cottage and the surrounding acreage. The documents showed that the property had belonged to her before John had returned from the war. These led to further titles and deeds, which also proved that it had been passed down through the years to various women in the Watson line. The most interesting fact in all of this was not that there were many times in history where the ownership of property by women was frowned upon and not very likely, but occasionally happened. No, the most interesting and seemingly impossible fact is that all of these women have indeed been you."

Harriet continued to smile, serenely. She turned to Clara and said, "Drink your tea, dear."

Sherlock continued, "My brother also discovered that, according to folk stories and legend, there have been many ghostly sightings here over the years, even before there was a house. Not all of John, of course, but all young men, all appearing now and then. Occasionally there have been records of the spirits being able to communicate and stating that they weren't dead but trapped. Evidence shows that the young men changed approximately every seventy to eighty years and were all somehow related, albeit distantly."

He stood, moved over to her chair and smiled at her. "Almost all were descended from the Watson family. The others from another."

"You and your brother have done your homework. But you can't prove any of this, and no one would ever believe you. It is all so ridiculous and impossible."

"I have no wish for anyone to believe. I only wish for John to be rescued from the hell you've put him in."

"I know dear, and it is unfortunate, but he can't be. He can only cease his existence. It's a very complicated spell. One I am sure you wouldn't understand."

"Attempt to enlighten me."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt seeing as when I am finished here you won't be able to tell anyone. And it has been a long time since I told anyone this story. Sometimes memories are burdens, and it is beneficial to set them down now and then."

She leaned back and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there was a faint glow about her. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock dear, you see before you the last of a dying race. I am the only one I know of still alive. At one time, we numbered in the thousands. The British Isles have long been our home, although occasionally we travelled the world and visited other places. We existed long before man came down out of the trees. We are an old and complicated race and what you see as magic, is merely science to us. We discovered things that look wondrous to humans simply because they cannot see it for what it is."

"And what is it?"

"Science, discipline, a manipulation of molecules and reality, I suppose. We mastered time and space and we were able to do things that seemed incredible."

"And what happened when man entered the picture?"

Her face grew dark. "What man always does to that he does not understand, or perhaps he envies. He destroyed us. We fought back, and the wars were bloody and terrible. We are long-lived, but we don't bear young often or easily, so our kind had trouble replacing those who died. Some decided the only way to survive was to intermarry. It was beneficial to both races, and some of your greatest humans came from those bondings. Many continued to fight. It was a losing battle as there are simply too many of you. Over the years, other things contributed to our demise. We discovered that certain things the humans made or did were not healthy for us."

"The production of iron?"

She looked at him with surprise, but he gestured for her to continue. "Yes, that was not a good invention. We were allergic to it, although I have built up a certain tolerance to it. I try to avoid it when possible. The magic I created helps to a certain extent." She appeared lost in thought, perhaps remembering a time when she was not alone.

"Please continue with your story."

"I met a man many years ago. He was fair and kind. He came from Scotland and fell in love with this land. We were few and far apart those of us who were left, and I was lonely. He took me to his bed and out of that union, I produced two children, a boy and a girl. I loved them both. They in turn grew and married and had children of their own. I disappeared or made it seem like I had, but I would come back to this land now and then to visit my descendants. Over the years, they spread but invariably one would always come back home. The land calls to you."

She stood and walked to the fireplace, staring into the flames. "At times, I would travel looking for my kind, but there came a day when I found not one. So many have died we could not reproduce. I returned to this very spot where I had been brought into the world and in my sadness and despair I decided I would kill myself. I had family of sorts scattered throughout the world, but there was nothing left for me. I had grown old, so very old and frail. The existence of iron in the makings of man was killing me.

"I prepared a great working, and I was all set to end my life when a young man came to see what the glow in the sky was. Something happened and in trying to stop me, he interfered and was caught up in the spell. It caused him to be thrown out of this time, and he landed in a pocket of space. It seemed to act as a placeholder, and I was no longer in pain, my physical self appeared younger, and some of the aging I had experienced was lifted. Something in the magic of him being trapped helped me and slowed my aging. I was overjoyed although there was some sorrow for the young man, whom I later discovered was a descendant of my line. Unfortunately, it was a short-lived working. Trapped in the pocket of space, he didn't age but still could only live a normal lifespan. When it came close to what would have been his natural death, I had to lure another male descendant here and go through the ritual again. Eventually, I was able to extend the life of the men trapped until I did not need them as often. But something happened to change how it worked."

"You fell in love. Something you did not plan."

"I did." She sat on the sofa once more where she picked up Clara's hand and patted it. "Clara was beautiful. She still is. She was bright and funny. She was the one person I was able to share my secret. We met in 1854. It was a time when young woman could live together, and not many would comment on it. We travelled the world and the things I showed her, well, it was a lovely time for us. But inevitably, she began to grow old, and it was near when I had to repeat the process. I found a male relative of my daughter's line. I had been studying trying to figure out how to extend Clara's life. I could not bear to have her parted from me. When I performed the ritual, something happened, and it went horribly wrong. Including her caused a backlash and hurt Clara. She was never quite the same after that. She was also greatly disturbed by what had happened to that young man. She begged me not to do it again. But I wouldn't listen. I was determined to make it all better. One of the effects was that for some reason, maybe because Clara was included in the spell, it didn't last long, and I found I had to bring another young man, this time from my son's line, here. It was easy. He was looking for a place to call home; he just didn't know it."

"John."

"Yes, John. It worked better this time. I began to wonder if my son's line was better for the workings. Who knows? Maybe it has more to do with the nature of the person. He seemed to be a self-sacrificing type. My daughter's line was always more interested in pursuing knowledge and self-interest. There is also the difficulty that I have also recently discovered both of my children's lines are dying out. My son's has completely disappeared and of my daughter's line there are only two male heirs left. Because my family is almost gone, I need to change the parameters of the working. I am no longer only interested in extending my life and that of Clara's." She smiled at Sherlock. It wasn't a nice smile.

"Of the two male heirs left, you would refer to Mycroft and me."

"Oh yes, aren't the two of you terribly clever. But that would be my daughter's legacy. She was exceedingly smart. What it boils down to, my dear progeny, is that it is time to work and here you are. It was very convenient for you to be here in this time and place."

"Not so convenient. Mycroft, as I said, has put a great deal of work into this undertaking. It was convenient that I was hurt and needed a place to recuperate so he chose this location, knowing I would be required to be here to stop you. He would have manufactured something, an interesting case I presume, to bring me here. Or you would have. I would not be surprised if you followed your children."

"I certainly have. I recognized both you and Mycroft when he was here last, so long ago."

"I am curious. Why create the magic to ensnare John and me? Was it necessary for us to have intercourse? I assume it was for the workings of your magic."

"Yes, of course. For you to take John's place and to include Clara in the working, you had to be connected on an emotional level. There is great power in the act of sex, but especially when falling in love. It works just as well as other things, and it gave you a nice going away present."

"And the agrimony?"

"Call it a catalyst. It doesn't do anything by itself. You wouldn't sleep with just anyone by simply smelling or burning it. But it added a key to unlocking desires already present. It worked better than I hoped. It created a bond between you two that will be hard to break. I had never used it for this particular spell before. It helped you to recognize John as part of you, a soul mate I suppose. Each half of my family coming together for one last working. As you and John are nearly the last of my line and as Mycroft will not be around the next time I need to do this, I have changed the parameters of the spell. Your death will be used not only to extend my life and Clara's for a much longer period but also to shift us in time, to a better place, a better life. We cannot live here any longer as I am sure your brother will want some form of revenge."

"My death?"

"Sadly this time you will need to die."

"You don't seem terribly upset to be losing the last of your family."

"Of course not. You are almost entirely human, and I despise most humans. I loved my children, but they have long ago turned to dust. You are only related to me by the thinnest of connections, but it will be just enough to start the working."

She stood and picked up her handbag from the floor.

"You assume that I will sit here and let you do this," Sherlock said.

"Oh, silly boy. You have no hope of defeating me." She rummaged around in her handbag and took out a small wrapped bundle, rather like a sachet kept in a linen closet. She turned and tossed it into the fire. Immediately, a heavy cloud of perfumed smoke arose out of the fireplace and enveloped all three of them. The fire glowed hotter, and the room was wrapped in a faint glow of light that began to grow brighter with every second.

Coughing from the sickening smell, Sherlock was able to choke out, "Now, John."

oOo

Returning home after mailing the letters, he knew he had little time before his guests arrived. Sherlock started a fire in the fireplace. He was finally beginning to believe that science and logic were not necessarily the best tools right now. Shocked at first by his brother's immediate acceptance, he could see where the lines between science, magic and fate intersected. Apparently Mycroft had been walking in this world far longer than Sherlock. He had known about John since before Sherlock was born and had been preparing for this day for a long time.

Sherlock wondered at his brother's ability to accept his little brother's sacrifice in all of this. He shrugged. It wouldn't matter in the end. What had been done before would be done again, and wrongs would be made right. If Mycroft was to be believed, it was too late, and it had been set in motion long ago.

Getting the fire good and blazing, he left the room and looked through cupboards and closets, finding mostly what he needed. He checked his mental list of the items suggested by Mycroft. Sherlock placed the items he'd scrounged in his pocket. He looked at the mirror. Mycroft said he'd specifically require it, but Ms. Watson might be suspicious. She could even find away to damage or destroy it. She was crafty. Sherlock would just have to be craftier.

He sat briefly, closed his eyes.

Perfect. He went to fetch the item he'd remembered seeing in the pantry. A feeling of surprise fluttered briefly in his stomach that some of these items were indeed in this house. Ms. Watson was not dissimilar to human criminals. She had faith in her intelligence, believed in her hubris, had never been challenged before and was blind to her faults. There was probably the belief that Sherlock would not figure out what was needed to alter events. She had become complacent.

Sherlock went to the front door and rooted in his coat pocket. He removed the jar of honey. He then hurried back to the kitchen and set about making tea. On the tray, he placed cups and saucers, sugar, lemon and after putting some honey in a small glass bowl he added that as well. Milk from the fridge was the last item along with some spoons.

Finally, he placed a handful of nails he had found in the basement in his pocket. He was fairly certain they were iron from the look, but if not the other things he had would work just as well. These were more like the icing on the cake.

He called out, "John?"

John materialized in front of him, a smile on his face. He was almost firmly in the here and now, which meant that there wasn't much time left.

Sherlock took his hand and pulled him close. He kissed him, slow and sweet. There was a melancholy flavour to his kiss, a promise of more if it were possible to be had, a hint of despair and a fullness of the love he felt for this man, a love he could not help but have. It was what was meant to have happened. He knew that now.

And if this worked, the two of them would be together for a very long time.

He spoke quickly to John of his plans and John, after another long and lingering kiss, nodded sadly and disappeared once more.

The kettle reached boiling, a heavy head of steam screamed from the spout, calling for attention. As he poured the water over the tealeaves and other ingredients, the doorbell rang.

He pulled the door open with a flourish.

"Ms. Harriet Watson, how lovely of you to join me and I am delighted your partner, Ms. Clara Brown, was also able to be present. Such ordinary names for such extraordinary ladies. Come in, come in. Shall I take your coats? There we go. I'll just hang them here. You'll be able to find them when we are finished. You know where the sitting room is. Please make yourself comfortable. I'll fetch the tea."

oOo

John appeared directly behind Harriet. He wrapped his arms around her as Sherlock rushed forward, dug into his jacket pocket and added some of the ingredients he had scavenged into the fireplace; some clover and rowan bark he had found on his walk home, ginger and allspice, a slice of bread and half of the iron nails. Harriet struggled with John and with inhuman strength managed to throw him off. As Sherlock had suspected, she picked the teapot from the tray and flung it at the mirror, shattering it into bright shards.

"No!" she screeched, "you will not do this."

"This cannot continue. You cannot continue." Sherlock lifted the tea tray and flung the remaining contents to the floor. He flipped it so Ms. Watson was reflected in the surface. "It may not be as good as the mirror, but it has the added benefit of being silver, which may have a measure of harm for you." He then took the rest of the nails and flung them at her. She screamed when they hit her.

Clara was becoming very agitated. Wringing her hands, she left the couch, crying out, "No! No, stop!" She rushed at Sherlock and began hitting him with her hands.

John tried to stop Clara, but when he touched her arm, she shrieked and grabbed the nearest thing to hand a heavy crystal vase. She hit John on the head with it. He went down, rolled on the floor and was still.

"John!" Sherlock held on tightly to the tray but moved so he was closer to where John lay on the floor. The light in the room was growing brighter.

Harriet reached into the fire with the iron poker from beside the hearth. She was panting in pain from touching the metal, but she needed something to use to pull out the things Sherlock had dropped into the fire. It would have been better if she had left it alone. The poker touched the fire, and a squealing noise began to grow louder with each passing second. At first Sherlock thought it was the fire itself but he realized it was coming from Harriet.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes to block the light as it began to glow even brighter, becoming almost unbearable.

Harriet screamed loud and long and jerked her hands, causing one of the logs in the fireplace to roll out, igniting the hearthrug. The greedy flames burned fiercely and quickly consumed the rug. Harriet was standing too close and did not see the danger. Her skirt caught fire. With panicking hands, she tried to bat it out. Clara shrieked and ran over to her. Her mind muddled and confused, instead of trying to help put out the flames, she hugged Harriet, seeking comfort. They were soon both wrapped in flames.

Sherlock, coughing from the thickening smoke, dropped the tray and fell beside John.

"John! John!" A faint moan and John's eyes flickered. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, attempting to protect him from the heat. The light in the room was excruciating. The flames had begun to consume the old wooden walls terrifyingly fast. The room was engulfed, but Sherlock would not leave John. Heat and something else prickled at his skin, and the air was rent with the crackle of flames and an odd humming noise that grew steadily louder. He felt dizzy from the smoke and heat, and he was sure the room or the earth or the universe was spinning madly out of control. The only thing solid and real was John. He bent down to kiss him one last time, and the navy eyes opened. Looking at Sherlock with a puzzled expression, John reached up and pulled him into a kiss. As their lips met, the light brightened, and their world exploded.

**AN: Thinking about hating me?**


	9. Full Circle

**A/N: Well here you go – the last chapter;) It may not be what you expected but this is where I was going &amp; I planned this from the beginning;) I was very excited o write this chapter.**

**Thanks again to mattsloved1 &amp; johnsarmylady – I couldn't do it without you!**

9\. Full Circle

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_By the time you read this…._

_Isn't that how these letters are supposed to start? 'By the time you read this, the murderer will be revealed. By the time you read this, you will realise the truth. By the time you read this, I will be dead.'_

_All of these are true, to some extent or another. I am sorry if the last one shocks you and I do not wish for you to be distressed by any of this._

_It was always inevitable. _

_Mycroft has promised he will inform you of the sequence of events leading up to my last night as Sherlock Holmes. If all goes well, I will no longer be the same person I was. If it doesn't, there are worse things. Either way, it is my wish and my hope that I am with John._

_John_

_I did not have the courage to tell you about John._

_I only hope that Mycroft has the subtlety to make you believe that in the end I was happy._

_Of course, this is Mycroft we are talking about, but perhaps he does._

_If not, know that I have at last found the one person without whom I could not live. There is something about him for which I yearn. I am not complete or whole without him. Therefore, it is logical that I strive to discover a way to both free him from his horrid existence and be with him. If you believe in souls, which I do not, then you would say we are two halves of the same soul._

_It is that simple._

_Please take comfort in knowing that in the end...in the end it was of my free choice. Even though, really, there was no other possible course of action._

_Ah, sentiment. You will love the idea that I am as sentimental as any fool who fell in love._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

For about the hundredth time, Mrs. Hudson read the last letter from the wayward son of her heart. It was rapidly becoming worn. It had that smooth, polished feel to it and there were no longer any discernible creases from the original folds.

He had asked in the letter that she take comfort in his last act. She wasn't entirely sure she could or forgive him, either.

She did not know all of the details, but Mycroft had come to her and explained what he felt he could, revealing the issue with John's unusual imprisonment. He told her some of his involvement, but not everything. There was a promise of sorts to tell her the full story, someday. He had said it was a secret and a mystery, and she could not divulge any of the details to anyone.

He had not threatened her. He did not have to. What he had told her was beyond imagination, and no one would have believed her. She couldn't do that to Sherlock.

Everyone assumed he had died in a house fire while away recuperating. There were two bodies pulled out the fire. Most knew the first was that of Ms. Harriet Watson. What few knew was that the second body was of her long-time partner Ms. Clara Brown. Few also knew how long a time it was that they had been partners. Mrs. Hudson knew. She also knew there were specific reasons for Mycroft to wish for it to be covered up. He had arranged things so the villagers understood that Ms. Brown had been taken away to an undisclosed retirement home before anyone could speak to her. Mrs. Hudson asked why it couldn't be known that she was killed in the fire, too. Mycroft wouldn't say. He also wouldn't say why there was not a third body.

In the dark hours of the night when she couldn't sleep for thinking about Sherlock, she knew what information Mycroft had shared about John Watson and Sherlock's experiences with him, to be true. For her piece of mind and the desire for Sherlock to have at last found happiness, she must believe it.

Today was the three-month anniversary of his death. For some reason, for those who have experienced loss, the third month is, in some ways, harder to live through than the actual event.

It was true for her. At Sherlock's funeral, she had been mostly numb or in 'helping' mode. Today, she had been weeping silently, slow tears trickling down her face, making her chin and neck soggy. She'd catch the odd one in a handkerchief. She had thought about using a tissue, but yes, sentiment. In her mind, the idea of catching and keeping her tears in a fine lace handkerchief and then placing it in a box with the last of his letters was a lovely and romantic idea.

And it would have surely made him roll his eyes at her silliness.

She chuckled quietly thinking about his reaction. She'd do it just to spite him. Stupid bugger, getting himself killed.

And yet…

There was something in the wording of the letter that made her heart tighten with faint hope. There was something in the way Mycroft spoke about his brother as if he believed him to be not dead.

With a heavy sigh, she stood up from the sofa. _This will never do, Martha. You need to pull yourself together and stop this pointless moping._ She gave herself a shake and moved to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Tea was the answer for everything.

As she reached the threshold, the doorbell rang. She sighed. She hoped it wasn't Mrs. Turner, coming to check on her again. She wasn't in the mood for company today. She wanted to mourn in private.

Opening the door, she sighed internally.

"Mycroft," she greeted him, trying not to show her annoyance. He was after all a closer relation to Sherlock than she had been and he must be grieving too.

If he could.

She doubted he loved him as well.

Inviting him in, he hung his great coat on the pegs by the door and followed her into her flat whilst she continued to the kitchen and put on the kettle. She pulled out the biscuit tin and arranged a few on a plate. Water boiled and poured, she carried the tray into the sitting room.

Mycroft was almost relaxed looking. He was carrying with him a small package, wrapped and strangely there was a smile on his face.

"Mrs. Hudson, I have news."

"About?"

"Sherlock, of course."

"Mycroft, that isn't funny."

"My dear woman, I am not trying to be." Ignoring the package resting on his lap, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cloth bundle. He carefully opened it. Lying on the cloth was an old and yellowed envelope. It was thick with the weight of a letter. He pulled out a pair of gloves from his other pocket and handed them to her.

"I should not have brought this to you. It should be read in an environmentally controlled location, but I felt it important you have a chance to read it in the privacy of your home, the home you shared with my brother."

She tried to breathe through the lump in her throat. Holding out her hand, Mycroft put the gloves in them. Once they were on, she was given the letter. If this was more sad news, she did not want to weep anymore in front of Mycroft.

Noting there was nothing on the front of the envelope, she opened the letter. A sharp pain went through her as she recognised the handwriting. She gasped aloud as she took in the date at the top of the letter. The location of where it had been written almost made her head swim.

It was not possible.

And yet it was not the strangest thing she had heard of in this whole strange story.

_January 29th, 1895_

_ 221B Baker Street_

_ London_

_My Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_I can well imagine the look of shock upon your face. I can imagine it because at times I felt the same look upon my own and seen it reflected upon John's._

_I do not quite know where to begin, and I can hear your laughter at the idea that I might be at a loss for words._

_I guess I could start with the beginning of my new life. That happened moments after the fire started in the cottage. Some of those particular details, I have written a similar letter to Mycroft. I have made certain arrangements that you will both receive your letters. I have planned as best I could, knowing what I know about the wars and the destruction of London in what was once my past and is now my future. Hopefully, you both receive them. If not, perhaps someday a curious historian will come across them, and believe these to be the fictional musings of a novice writer of science fiction._

_However, I have great hope in my ability for this to reach you._

_First of all, I am going to assume that Mycroft told you some of the things that transpired and led to me discovering John Watson's existence and to the fire in the cottage. You will have, no doubt, been told I disappeared or perhaps that I died. I had believed that something would happen, to John and me. Mycroft had hinted that there would be some sort of sacrifice involved. He could not tell me all of the details. He said it might affect the outcome. I assume some story was concocted because I am no longer in that time period, and neither is my body. _

_A fire started in the cottage. A fire, which I assume, went unchecked and continued to consume the cottage. I have no way of knowing if this is true and am only inferring from the facts at hand, which, for me is completely ridiculous. I have said in the past never to deduce without all of the facts, yet here I am. What I know to be true is that a fire started in the sitting room because Ms. Watson tried to remove the ingredients I had thrown in. Instead, it caused a burning log to roll out, igniting the hearthrug. Moments after the fire started, there was a great deal more light than there should have been and also an odd humming. My skin began to tingle. I thought it might be a lack of oxygen and the increase of heat. I kissed John goodbye, believing we too would be killed when something happened. Looking back, we suspect it was a combination of the magic present in the room. Everything that Harriet had prepared, plus the things I threw in the fire. Perhaps in her dying, it unleashed all of the energy of an ancient, magical creature. John likes to think the kiss might have something to do with it, a declaration of love, perhaps. Despite the fact I have had to become used to the idea of magic, I refuse to think the same of the power of a kiss. He is dreadfully sentimental._

_I love him beyond all my hopes. Yes, I know. Hurray for me. _

_After all of the chaos, we discovered ourselves to be lying in a field. The sun was shining brightly, and we could hear bird song and the air fresh and clean. The best thing is that John was whole and fully back on this plane of existence. The sound of joy and delight in his laughter made the whole experience worthwhile._

_It wasn't long until we discovered that things were far stranger than we originally thought. The repercussion of the interruption of magic had transported us back in time. We were in the same location, but before the house was built. We believe to be in between times of Harriet's workings. I cannot prove any of this, but I suppose we landed when Harriet was not in England. Perhaps we cannot be near each other or near when a working is happening. I suspect because we were related and each contain some trace DNA of her blood, as thin as it would be after all of these centuries, it may have affected the working and cushioned us or acted as a catalyst. We will never truly know. _

_Either way, we needed to find our way in a world of which we had no knowledge. John was slightly more prepared than I was as he was born closer to this age. I will admit that I did not realize at first how taxing it was to my mind to be transported out of the modern era where I was comfortable. Be that as it may we have learned to adapt._

_I will not go into all details of our adventures. I am hoping that our present to you also survived, and you can read about them for yourself. Mycroft has instruction regarding that, so look to him for clarification. _

_After a time of trial and frustration, I remembered my father telling me of an eccentric relative who lived not far from where we were presently located. I had hopes of going there and convincing him, somehow, that I was indeed a long lost relative, more lost than he would know._

_We did indeed find him. His name is/was Sherrinford Holmes and once we gained admittance, and he heard our tale, we were able to convince him of our honesty. He was greatly intrigued. Like me, he was a student of science, or for what passed as science in this day and age (it is very odd to write of the past as the past when I am now part of it – excuse my mixing of tenses). It helped that I had certain items with me I gave to him to study. Those convinced him more than my words._

_In the end, he assisted us, and we located to London. The best and sweetest surprise was when we found accommodations in the very building I lived in, in the future. After settling ourselves and engaging a housekeeper (not nearly as dear to me as my former landlady), I contacted the Yard. Imagine their surprise to find one such as me who was able to show them certain techniques to use to solve crimes. The hardest part has been not to muddy the future by introducing ideas and concepts that would not be available and not be believed. I have had to do a lot of reading to check my facts and ideas. The man I work for, Inspector Gregson is not nearly as bright as Lestrade, but he is a good man and is willing to let me help in some of the more sordid cases. John has discovered he thoroughly enjoys chronicling our cases, and although he puts too much action in them and not enough science and fact, they have a certain appeal. He is not at this time interested in publishing his stories, for which I am grateful, but he derives a certain pleasure for his amusement. _

_In the end, it doesn't matter. John and I are together. We are careful, but as ever, few are observant, and most think us to be two confirmed bachelors living together. One of the most interesting aspects of this time period, which John greatly appreciates, is that it is perfectly acceptable for two gentlemen to walk arm in arm in public. We believe this will change around the time of The Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918 when the public becomes more concerned with spreading the sickness through touch. He says he remembers hearing that even handshakes were frowned upon for a time. Please don't worry about us, for there has been an interesting and fairly useful aspect to all of this. Neither John nor I appear capable of getting sick. Not so much as a cold and any ill effect from chasing criminals appears to heal fairly quickly. We also believe our aging has slowed; upon which I am sure Mycroft would love to get his hands. We assume it is because of what happened to us._

_I cannot say for certain how long lived we will be, but rest assured we will be together for long enough. In fact, we will soon have to lose these identities and become different people, before others begin to suspect that we are not maturing as rapidly as we should. John has it in his head that we should explore the world before it changes too much. I think we may move to North America for a time. We shall see. I indulge him in many things and him, me._

_And now I must come to the end of my letter. John has called me three times to come and eat. Tedious. I must heed him however for he is, as ever, my conscience, my guardian, my love. _

_Let me leave you with the comfort and knowledge that I am indeed a very happy and contented man. You may wonder at my almost gushing testimonies of love for this man, but my dear Mrs. Hudson, after all I have seen and done, all we have been through, I am a changed man and not so afraid of expressing my feelings._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes._

As she came to the end of the letter, she discovered fresh tears upon her cheeks, but they were no longer of sorrow. She was enormously happy thinking about her boy together with the man of his choosing, living a totally different existence. Mycroft pretended to be interested in another biscuit whilst she controlled her feelings.

He cleared his throat. "The letters were discovered, hidden in a wall of the old family estate. It had been sold to a historical society, but in doing some renovations, a box was discovered addressed to me. There was, as I am sure you read, a letter for me with further explanations as well as the location of certain artifacts I might find useful. A legacy of sorts from my baby brother."

Mrs. Hudson suspected there was more depth of feeling to Mycroft than most would know. His eyes had a distinct watery look.

"There was also a package addressed to me which contained all of the journals John had written in, detailing their life together." He cleared his throat again, this time he blushed. "Some of it quite explicit and if it had fallen into the wrong hands, it might have proven difficult for them to continue as they had been. However, they both took great pains to hide their relationship and to move about. They returned to the estate several years before moving permanently to North America where they left this package. In it were instructions to have it published if I saw fit. Sherlock said it would prove to be an interesting series of stories about a great Victorian detective and his partner. Because he lived in this time period, he knew two men living together would not be seen as immoral or illegal and that some would be amused by the idea of their relationship. A forward thinking story perhaps. I have chosen to have it published as having been written by a modern author. I have certain connections that have been able to rush the first printing, for me to bring you your very own copy."

He handed her the other parcel. She unwrapped it to discover a brand new published book entitled, _The Adventures Of Sherlock Holes by Arthur Conan Doyle._

"The name is one of John's choosing. He thought it sounded grand." Mycroft smirked. "Sherlock also directed me to say that a part of the royalties will go to you, should it become successful."

She opened the book, the lump in her throat growing. She looked back at Mycroft.

"Why Mycroft, why him? Why did you let this happen?"

Mycroft stood, looking down at his shoes, speaking to them, as it was far easier than addressing Mrs. Hudson.

"Several years ago, I passed a well-dressed man on the street. I had by this time already met John Watson and had begun to think about how horrible his existence must have been. I was in my teens and learning that the world is full of tragedy and sorrow, most of which I could do nothing about. The man bowed to me and winked as he walked by. He said to me in a voice that sometimes haunts my dreams. 'It would greatly improve your appearance if you would stop eating so many cakes and biscuits.' I turned in a huff to say something I am sure would have been a deeply cutting remark, when he added, 'John Watson says thank you for your assistance, and I thank you for giving me the courage to free him.' I was rather stunned, and I did not call after him. I had told no one about John. I have never forgotten that conversation as I have never forgotten John Watson's plight.'"

He paused and looked toward Mrs. Hudson. "It was years later that I realized it was Sherlock. He is still alive, I believe, and perhaps, someday we will meet again. I had to help him and set his feet upon this journey because you see, I already had."

"Was it difficult? Letting him go?"

"The most difficult thing I have ever done. Perhaps someday I will tell you the whole of it. I will tell you of the study and work I had to do to track down the truth and find out what I needed to do to free him and defeat the last of a magical race. I have a certain amount of sorrow for that. Perhaps then you can forgive me. Perhaps I can forgive myself." He turned and left.

Mrs. Hudson patted the book on her lap. She would read it, soon, perhaps. When she did not miss Sherlock so much. Knowing he was out there, knowing he was happy helped a great deal, but did not lessen the missing.

Standing to put away the tea things, she glanced up at the ceiling. Imagine Sherlock had lived here all those years ago with his John. It was almost like it was meant to be.

If she listened carefully, she could almost hear them clattering down the stairs, off to hunt down the criminals of Victorian London, Sherlock crying out, 'Hurry John, he's getting away!' Or something less frantic, like 'Dust, dust is eloquent.' On the very edge were the strains of a violin and the murmurs of words spoken in love as good nights were said and kisses exchanged.

With a nod of her head and a lighter heart, she marched into the kitchen, with the hope that someday another knock would occur upon the door and standing on the other side would be two men, one tall and lanky, perhaps with silver in his hair and a knowing smirk on his face. Another shorter man would be standing beside him; a shorter, slightly portly man. Perhaps he walked with a cane and a stiff gait. He would have a merry of face and a matching twinkle of trouble in his eye. He would say, "I have heard a great deal about you."

Perhaps someday.


End file.
